Wooden Words
by Aicalas
Summary: Katie Bell: babbler, self-admitted slob and mindlessly in love with one Oliver Wood, tidy, a little controlling, and utterly impossible to understand. Somedays life is wonderful, sometimes it's not, but it'll definitely always be a crazy ride.
1. Homecoming

**A/N:** To my dearest reviewers, who has stuck with me this far: Thank you. This is the rewritten, update _Wooden Words_. I hope you enjoy it.  
-much love, aicalas.

**Chapter One  
****Homecoming  
**_If I'm falling, falling apart for you_

_Dear Oliver,  
__It's day 33 of your not being here. That's two days longer than the month you said. But I suppose congratulations are in order. Good__ job on flattening France! I suppose we should have known that any team with robes that pink wouldn't be any good. Ha ha. That makes you ten-for-ten! Puddlemere United – undefeated! __But Oliver...well...that was a week ago. Do you think you guys are coming home soon? I miss you. Just wondering when you'll come home. This place is so empty without you-_

The front door creaked open.

With a clatter, I dropped my quill and spun. _"OLIVER_!" I shrieked and crushed the letter in my hand, running at the door. Oliver stood there, laughing, looking almost the same. Tall, well built with light brown hair, and sparkling brown eyes. "YOU'RE HO-" I was cut off, my excited yell muffled by his chest. Oliver laughed again. It was such a nice sound; this apartment had been so quiet. "Katie!" he gasped as he pulled me into a tight hug. I coughed. "Oliver...can't...breathe..."  
"Oops." He released me, but held onto my shoulders, looking me up and down. "You look good! I'd have thought you'd be skin and bones...did you learn to feed yourself?" He grinned mischievously.  
"Yes, I did!" I said, defensively, "I cleaned too! Everything!" Oliver's eyebrows raised. "Oh come on, Bell, you'll have to do better than that. I know you'd…you'd never-" he faltered, eyes taking in the spotless floor, the organized kitchen, even the matching pillows on the couch. He turned to me, grabbed my shoulders, mock-seriously.  
"_Who_ are you? And what have you done with my roommate? Hmm?"

I had been scrutinizing him for injuries or scars (I doubted he'd have told me about any in the letters home), and his interrogation took me by surprise. "Hm? What?"

Oliver grinned at my obliviousness. "That's more like her. I'm in one piece, Kat. You can stop playing the worried mother." He tapped me on the chin. I stuck out my tongue.  
"What? No, I can't stop!" I poked him in the chest. "Once you're a mother, Ol, you're one for life. You'll understand that one day." I nodded sagely, mouth quirking. "You'll make a good mum, one day…" Oliver blinked. "Oh, Ollie, have they not been working you at all? Whatever happened to witty banter? You'll make your poor mother cry!"  
Oliver opened his mouth, clearly trying to work through my mindless babble - no, scratch that, banter. _Witty_ banter. Yes. I'd spent enough time alone that I no longer knew how to speak in even a slightly coherent manner. "Okay, I get it. You were too busy being a jock to spent time chatting. Come on, then. Tell me all about it!"  
Oliver still looked a touch bemused, so I dragged him over to the kitchen counter, adopting my – rarely used - honestly-I-want-to-hear-about-your-quidditch-face. He didn't need any further invitation.

When he started going into the exact mechanics of each and every game- they had won all of them, I was so proud- I started making lunch, my mind wandering. It has been eight years I've known Oliver Wood. Eight wonderful, fantastic, amazing years. When I was a star-struck 1st year, I'd have never imagined in my wildest dreams, that I would, at 18. be sharing an apartment with him.

So many girls would kill to be in my place. Even though we're just friends. But that's okay, you know?

Ok, so that's a total lie. Oliver was my biggest crush in third year, and by fourth year it was all-out love. I was thrown into a week of depression when Ol first left for Germany (then Bulgaria, then Russia, briefly Japan, Italy, then France) a month ago. I need him near me, otherwise I go batty. Whether that's… just me, I don't know. So, I haven't done anything. I won't do anything. Being near him is enough. Listening to him is enough.  
…even when he's thoroughly describing the sloth-grip roll he drilled me on for hours and hours as a 13-teen-year-old. Oh, Oliver. Droning on and on and…  
"Katie. Katie? _**Katie. KATIE. **_THE STOVE IS ON FIRE."  
"What? Oh- OH!." I flapped my hands at my flaming sandwich frantically.  
"_Katie."  
_"What? Get me some water, Ol, quick! Or – oh, _shit_." I'd been trying to smother the fire with a dishtowel, which had cheerfully begun burning.  
"Katie! You. Are. A. _**Witch**_."  
"Oh." I blushed. "Right." I tugged my wand out of my hair, flicking it. "_Augamenti." _I mumbled, sheepishly, watching the flames sizzle and die. I poked at my sodden, charred grilled cheese. _"Damn._ I was hungry…" I muttered at it, before glancing up at an exasperated Oliver. "How _did _you survive when I wasn't here?"  
"Just fine!" I bristled, indignantly. Why did I always do the stupidest things only around him?  
"Really."  
"I didn't burn _anything_ when you were away! Not one thing!"  
"Mhmm."  
"Oh, shut up."

Stupid distracting Quidditch stars.

xoxox

Oliver and I have lived together a few months now – and we've learnt to live with eachother. He accepts my generally oblivious clutter and _slight_ tendency to make a mess. I've learnt to deal with his extraordinary tidiness, and his absolute control-freak nature when it comes to the TV remote. (Some days, I wish I'd never taught the silly pureblood how to use it…) We still bicker like kids, of course. When _someone_ *ahem* insists on ironing his socks, I can't quite resist commenting. And I suppose I sorta see his point when he argues that I really ought to be able to see my floor at least _some_ of the time. He puts up with my impromptu, only slightly off-key shower karaoke sessions. I very much enjoy our sock-clad sliding dance parties, but I wouldn't ever admit it as he whips me off the couch to bop to the sappy music he secretly loves.

In fact, Oliver and I get on pretty well. On nearly…every issue. There is only one thing we cannot reconcile – girls.

Okay, I've had boyfriends before – I had a fling with Lee Jordan, and a Hufflepuff named Greg I'd been tutoring. They were fun, a handful of months long each and we're all still friendly. ('A Hufflepuff?' Alicia had said, "Oh, Katie, you _didn't."_) It's not like I expect Oliver – funny, sweet, fanatical, wildly-popular-since-his-first-day-in-Hogwarts Oliver – to not have girlfriends. I know he's had girlfriends, will have girlfriends (if you wanted to know, he only had brief relationships with girls at Hogwarts – they tended to grow bored of the fanatical Quidditch talk. Molly McDonald, Sarah Coughlin and Chloe Clearwater – Penelope's younger sister, actually. I never liked any of them much.) and heaven knows being a famous Quidditch star will only make it worse. But I don't have to _like_ it. But I've never brought a boy back _home_.  
Oliver had this flat for three years before I moved in and I suppose he got into …habits. I spent most of my first year graduated in hiding during the war. I lived with the twins, and lost total contact with nearly everyone else. I told my parents – muggles, both, that I loved them, and I couldn't talk to them and please, _please_, go hide. I saw Oliver for the first time in those long months at the final Battle of Hogwarts. We were bloodstained and bruised and I'd never been so excited to see anyone. And I needed somewhere to stay, so he offered to share and here I was, six months on.  
Look. I love Oliver – and I mean that. Love him as a friend, a companion, care about him – and I'm a little _in_ love with him. I've…always been a little in love with him. And while his highschool flings hurt (they did. A lot. I contented myself that he was a fourth year, and I was a first year, that he was a fifth year and I was a second year, that he was a sixth year and I was a third year – no matter that I was old for my year. It never helped much.) I never really had to _watch_. By the time we were really good friends – my fourth and fifth years – he'd laid off the girls. I thought that since we were sharing an apartment – you know – he'd have the courtesy to not date anyone.

Well, I thought he'd want to date me.

But anyways. Some days – after big games, or parties or press conferences, a fully-drunk Oliver– drunk as only a 21-year-old Scottish boy can be – will come staggering home, a giggling blonde girl behind him. It's only happened a few times, so far – five, I think. And each morning, I stomp into the kitchen in a towering temper, to find a hungover Oliver, either wildly apologetic or entirely muddled and unable to remember what quite had happened. And every time I melt and can't be angry, just hurt and a little more fragmented.

I just can't understand why he does it. Except that he just can't care about me. I'm starting to think that's the only explanation. I just don't want to think it true.

* * *

**Rewritten & updated! Please R&R!  
**_**Homecoming – Hey Monday**_


	2. New Morning

**A/N:** This story has been rewritten. If you have not started at Chapter 1, please do!

**Chapter Two  
****New Morning  
**_I don't give a damn about the gold that we could eat…_

I wandered into the kitchen with a fuzzy head, hair haloed in a mufasa-like mess around my shoulders.  
I sat down, and flopped my head directly onto the countertop. Oliver's voice issued from his similarly situated arms.  
"Grblef?"  
"Mmmm?"  
"Mmmm."

About five minutes passed this way.

"We should get up, shouldn't we?"  
"Idon'twanna."  
Oliver ruffled my hair, and got heavily to his feet.  
"Tea. You want?"  
"Please."

I could hear him whistling as he bustled around – yes, Oliver bustles, like a cheery little housewife – and the bubbling as he magically boiled tea water. There was a plunk as a bright mug, emblazoned with a blue script declaring: _**Chasers score in threesomes**__._ (I rolled my eyes) was placed in front of me, milky tea threatening to slop over the sides.

"I love you," I said, gratefully, grabbing at the mug with two hands.

Oliver leaned back against the countertop, sipping his own tea (_**PUDDLEMERE UNITED**_ – why didn't he get a stupidly innuendo-ed cup?), and smiled.

"I know."

xoxox

When I came back into the kitchen, it was in sensible muggle clothes, hair tamed and makeup on. Oliver turned round to look at me and smiled. He still had a sleepy, boyish look to him – a 'Firebolt' t-shirt on, blue checked pajama pants and his hair ruffled and tufted. My heart flipped over and my stomach squirmed. "Awake now, Sleeping Beauty?" he said cheekily, turning back to the stove. I yawned dramatically. "Entirely and utterly, my dear Prince. Now, more importantly, _what_ is on the menu today? For your first day back into the land of us poor, non-quidditchers?"  
As an answer, he handed me a plate of pancakes-my favorite- and bangers and mash on the other side- his favorites.  
Whoever thought that pancakes and mashed potatoes should not be eaten in the same meal was wrong. They might be a heart attack on a plate, but God it tasted good. Oliver took the opportunity to talk to me while my mouth was otherwise occupied, chowing down on sausage in the meantime.  
"Any plans for today?"  
I shrugged.  
"Did you visit Fred and George at all while I was away?" I opened my mouth to respond, but though better of it and held up two fingers.  
"Twice?" I nodded.  
"That's it?" I glared.  
"Well, that's changing. Hurry up."

xoxox

"Katie Pie!"  
"Katie Darling!"  
"Katie Dearest!"  
"Katie dum-diddly scrumptious!"  
Oliver was doubled over laughing at this point.  
"You know, " I said conversationally to the twins, hanging by the ankles in mid-air, "I don't think that last one was even a word."  
Fred was slowly turning redder and redder, rotating in a gradual circle.  
"It ought to be, really."  
I cocked my head, innocently,  
"No, I don't think so. So what have we learnt, sweetums?"  
"Testing products on Katie as she walks through the front door is frowned upon. Specifically uncured ones." George recited cheerfully.  
I dropped them with a thunk.  
"Excuse me?"  
I looked like a large smurf with bright blue skin and yellow hair, and my voice squeaked just like Smurfette's. It was enough to want to strangle them.  
"I'm _stuck_ like this?"  
"Just our little joke, Kates." George chuckled, picking himself up off the floor.  
"Here, eat this," Fred rummaged in his pocket and held out a large lime-green sweet.  
"Should reset everything."  
I glared at him suspiciously, then turned to Oliver, who was still chuckling.  
"You see why I only visited twice?"  
"Oh, I don't know," he responded merrily, "Blue suits you, I think."  
"You're not funny. Give me the sweet, Fred." I grabbed the offensively colored candy and popped it in my mouth. It tasted like lemon drops. Odd.  
"So, Oliver, what brings you to our neck of the woods, ol' captain, ol' pal?" George grinned up at Oliver cheekily.  
"Yes, we thought you were too busy off winning tournaments to visit your poor ol' beaters!"  
I began to gag loudly on the candy, behind them.  
"Er- Katie- is she...?"  
"Oh, she's fine," Fred confirmed, without looking at me, "Just a twist we put in there. Tastes like your least favorite food about halfway through. Should be back to lemon-y in one...two...three..."  
I finished choking on the pill and swallowed, hard, watching my skin slowly return to pink.}  
"I – _gasp_ - am so – _gasp_ - not finished - _gasp_ - with you two-" I wheezed. "You'd better expect payback. " I hissed, breath returning slowly. Fred and George smiled identical evil smiles.  
"Bring it on, Squirt." I resisted the urge to wince at the old Hogwarts nickname.  
"Are we forgetting the Flaming gingers incident of '94? Don't underestimate me, boys." I raised an eyebrow. Both twins winced. In my fifth year, I had managed to permanently set their vivid red hair on fire for an evening – it hadn't hurt them, but looking like the Disney–version Hades for a night was something none of the three of us would forget.  
Oliver paused a moment, and then broke out chuckling. "I'd forgotten about that!" he choked, between laughs. "You two looked like-".  
We never found out quite what they had looked like, for at that moment, Oliver was drowned out by a loud scream of "KAAAAAATIE!"

The breath was knocked out of me as two bodies flying-tackled me, two pairs of arms crushing me into a powerful hug. "Gerrof- can't- breathe-"  
What is it with everyone and the over-the-top greetings? Let's dye her blue, lets cut off all her air - why, it'll be great fun!  
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you!" a girly voice gasped.  
_Ohh.  
_"Now, no hogging Kat," a sterner voice said. I grinned.  
"Hey there, Alicia. Ange." They grinned, disentangling themselves. "Missed you, Kat," Angelina smiled. Angelina looked just the same, eyes sparkling with pleasure at seeing me. Alicia suddenly caught sight of something behind me. "COACH!" she squeaked, and without hesitation, flung herself onto Oliver. Ange's head whipped around. "Oliver!" she cried, and ran to hug him too. I glanced at the twins. They shrugged. "We're unloved too," George said, nonchalantly. I laughed, as Angelina and Alicia began congratulating Oliver on Puddlemere's wins.

"Okay," I heard Alicia say, louder and clearer than before, "well, we're going to steal Katie for a bit of girl time. You boys play nice." And within moments, they had dragged me upstairs and sat me down in their living room, tea (that I had protested) boiling in the kettle. They had this homey stuff so _down_. It felt like visiting my mother.

"So, Katie," Angelina began, "Why haven't we been seeing you?"  
"Yes!" Alicia's voice was indignant – she always came to emotions passionately and, occasionally, a little late – "Where have you been, Kates? I mean, Ol at least could claim he was off in France, or whatever –"  
"I've just…I've just been busy, that's all. You know."  
"Oh, busy doing _what_, Kat?" Alicia's voice was surprisingly scornful. "Pining over Oliver?"  
I blushed and spluttered. "What? No! I've been…I've been….well…keeping house. And…working at Flourish & Blott's." I could feel my face reddening.  
"_Flourish and Blott's?_ Katie! You're an accomplished witch. Have you even _applied_ for a Ministry Job? Or…I don't know. Something that leads to a career?" Angelina was fuming, bitter that I was, in her opinion, failing to realize my own potential.  
"I'm 18, Ange! A shopkeeper's assistant is a perfectly respectable job for a teenaged muggle!"  
"But you're _not_ a muggle, Katie." Angelina retorted briskly and matter-of-factly. Alicia didn't seem to be listening to our exchange, her brow knitted. She glanced up at me, smiling slightly.  
"Keeping house? You? Really? Practicing for something?" And she grinned, suddenly mischievous.  
"Yes, actually – Katie," Angelina grinned too, "You never answered Alicia's _first_ question. You setting up house for a certain Scottish keeper? And lots of little Scottish babies?" She winked.  
I blanched.  
"_NO."  
_Angelina laughed.  
"Kidding. But, really, Kat…?"  
I sighed. "Nah. You know Ol. He's interested in girls solely when the whiskey's been flowing. And even then, it's not going any longer than one night. I just don't think that he's _looking_ for a relationship. Or, you know. Maybe just not me. I don't know, guys. Maybe it's time for me to move on." This was why I hadn't been visiting Ange and Alicia. I knew, just knew, that they'd bring up Oliver, and I haven't been ready to discuss it. I'm not sure I am, even now.

"Oh, _Katie_. Honey…" Alicia sighed, sympathetically. I swallowed hard, feeling my eyes prick. _Oh, really_. I turned away. _This is pathetic._ I wiped my eyes, and turned back in time to see them share a glance. "What was that?" My eyes flickered from one to the other.  
"Well, Katie –" Alicia began, cautiously.  
"Don't get mad, but…" Angelina trailed off, looking at Alicia.  
"Spit it out."  
"Do you really think that if you were able to get over Ol, you would have by now?" the words poured out of Alicia.  
"I mean," Angelina added, before I could articulate a response, "It's been _years_, Kat. I just…just don't think you can give up. And there's a part of me that wonders…well…"  
"No, go on." My voice betrayed nothing, layered in a freakishly calm tone, with the slightest edge.  
Angelina is not easily cowed. She took a deep breath and said, without looking at me, "Maybe you're just chasing him for that – the chase. You've gone so long being in love with him and believing you can't have him that you don't even give yourself the chance to be with him."  
"Or anyone else, for that matter," Alicia piped up.  
Sometimes, I hate girltalk.  
"Especially since," Angelina went on, steam-rolling over my obviously irritated face, "Alicia and I keep _telling_ you that he's obviously _liked_ you and if you just took the initiative and asked him _out_ there wouldn't be this dram—"  
"Ange-"  
"No, Katie, you know it's true. And you're just so _stubborn-_"  
"You don't know _what_ you're talking abo-"  
"Yes, I do, I've known you both for ages-"

"SHUT UP! BOTH OF YOU!"

Angelina and I had jumped to our feet, face to face, fists clenched in twin poses of anger. Alicia was intervening, hands over her head to separate us.

"You _always _end up doing this! Katie – you need to accept that we're your friends and we have your best interests at heart and that we're not _stupid_. Give us some credit, and realize we wouldn't say these things without some sort of evidence! And Angelina…tact? Come on – you know that this is a touchy subject, for anyone. I mean, what are you, a boy? Sometimes you're as bad as George!"

Angelina and I looked at eachother. Angelina looked offended for a moment, before smiling. I giggled weakly.  
"Sorry Ange. You know – I…"  
"I know, Kat. And I do think you're a stubborn git."  
I frowned.  
"…but that I'm also a bit of a bitch about it."  
_ Typical Angelina. Captain to the end. Just like…  
_"What?" Alicia's voice was a bit plaintive. We turned towards her. "I have to listen to you both shriek and _I_ don't get any apologies?"  
Angelina and I exchanged a look. "Nope." We said in unison. I laughed, Angelina grinned and we high-fived.  
Alicia rolled her eyes and flopped back on the couch.  
"Never any respect…"

* * *

**Rewritten & updated! Please R&R! =]  
**_**New Morning – Alpha Rev**_


	3. Pack Up

**A/N:** This story has been rewritten. If you have not started at Chapter 1, please do!

**Chapter Three  
****Pack Up  
**_Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag…_

The girls and I chatted for another half-hour, giggling and catching up, carefully and pointedly avoiding any mentions of my love life or plaid, redheads, quaffles or anything else Scottish or Quidditch related. Eventually, noticing the suspicious lack of noise emanating from downstairs, Angelina decided it would be best for us to go check on the boys, and make sure no one had died yet.

"Boys?" Angelina carefully pressed an ear to the door, hand brushing the knob. "Hello…?"  
I blinked in confusion and turned to Alicia. "…What are we doing? Are we concerned about….walking in on them or something? Is _that_ why I've never thought Ol's interested…?"  
Alicia giggled. "No! It's just best to be… cautious entering their study. You never know what might—"

"GET DOWN!"

Angelina knocked us both back. There was an ear-splitting blast and a cloud of dust and… the door fell in splinters around us.  
I blinked and sat up.  
There was a definite ringing in my ears.  
I looked around. Alicia seemed to be mouthing at me.  
Odd.  
_Whooooosh.  
_Sound came back with a loud "Dammit, Fred!"  
Angelina was already sitting up, picking woodchips out of her hair. "I just had that door refitted, too!"  
Twin ginger heads poked out the gaping hole of a door, identical grins on identical faces.  
"Wasn't us!" They said, cheerily, in unison.  
"Oh, bollocks," Angelina said, grumpily, flicking a woodchip at Fred's face.  
"What on earth did you explode this time?" Alicia asked, rubbing her face wearily.  
"Nothing!" George replied, his hair standing on end.  
"Not a single, flammable object." Fred added, equally disheveled and smiley.  
A sudden sneaking suspicion came over me.  
"Boys? Where's Oliver?"  
Angelina's and Alicia's heads snapped back to the twins, whose heads retracted sharply. We exchanged frantic glances and leapt up to follow them haphazardly into the study.  
It was carnage. There were splatters of some nasty green liquid all over the walls, the table had cracked in half and there was a settling layer of glass powder over every surface. A stunned Oliver sat in the center of the room, covered head to toe in green slime, dribbling slowly on to the carpet.

"It was _all_ him." George said, cheerfully. "He just picked it up, and we just couldn't stop him!"  
"We tried and we tried, but it was all just too fast—" Fred continued before Angelina shushed him.  
"Ol? Are you okay?" I cocked my head, stepping closer. He blinked up at me for a moment, then turned to Fred and George.

"_You_." He hissed. The effect was somewhat ruined by slime dripping off his nose.

The twins waved, beaming at his apparent fury.

"You said that was perfectly safe. _You_ said that was quaffle polish…" His words trailed off as he looked down at his arms. "Is this… is this dye?"  
Fred and George smiled wider. Great patches of Oliver's skin was slowing turning green as he rubbed the slime away, eyes widening.  
"Our newest project!" George said happily.  
"Color bombs!" Fred added. "Plus, look at what it does!" He waved his wand, and Oliver's skin began to glow patchily, first green, then blue, red, purple – cycling through an entire rainbow of colours.

George began to laugh. "It's like a human disco ball! Brilliant, Fred!"

They high-fived.

I giggled. Oliver glared.  
"I-" he spat, advancing menacingly on the twins, "look like a bloody moron. Change me back, before I make both of you _bloodier_ morons."  
I piped up, grinning. "Oh, I don't know, Ol." I smirked up at him. "Green – well, blue. Purple. Red. Er. _Rainbow _suits you."  
He glowered. "Shut it, you."  
I grinned impishly and ducked as Oliver attempted to playfully whack me on the head. "Come on, Ol. Really." I reached up and wiped some goo away from his eye, smiling at my now-glowing thumb. I felt him tense ever so slightly under my fingers.

I turned quickly to Fred and George, feeling Oliver's eyes on me. "This really is excellent, boys. Can you make it permanent?" I smirked up at Oliver.  
He rolled his eyes, clearly sick of all this, and waved his wand to fix his clothes, his skin still flashing. "Prat." He looked reprovingly down at me. I stuck out my tongue at him.

"Arrogant berk."  
"Git."  
"Jerk."  
"Imp."  
"Troll."  
"Fairy."  
"Goblin."  
"er...er...pixie!"

"..."

"Did you just call me a pixie?"  
"Ok, I was running out, and 'pixie' was better than 'bloody-shorter-than-me-person."

I raised an eyebrow, and suddenly noticed the total silence around us. Oliver frowned. We both turned to see the twins, Alicia and Angelina watching us raptly. "Oh, no, do continue, please." George grinned. "Rather entertaining, really." Fred turned to Angelina, "You see, Angelina, _that_ is the dialogue of two people fancying the hell out of eachother, but are far too daft to actually notice." Angelina smirked and raised her eyebrows in agreement. Oliver and I spluttered at exactly the same time.  
"WHAT?"

xoxox

Alicia and Angelina coerced Fred and George into resetting Oliver's skin, but not before they had profusely thanked him for being "our tester! Really, you should come by, Ollie. It could be your day job!", to which Oliver spluttered and glared, and we all agreed to head into muggle London to get lunch.

I walked huffily down the street, still annoyed at Fred's tactless comment. _Bloody stupid moronic..._

Alicia and George were walking side-by-side up ahead, looking insultingly couplish and sweet. Angelina, on the other hand, was dashing back and forth, trying to control Fred, who decided today that he want to act like a particularly difficult puppy. "Fred-NO! What are you- _augh_!" I watched, bemusedly, as Angelina ran over to Fred, tugged him away from whomever he had been pestering, and spun him round. Then of course, because everyone was out to utterly confuse me today, she kissed him.

_Come again?_

Fred looked slightly dazed. Angelina looked up at him, and didn't let go of his shirt. "Behave?"  
"Yes, ma'm," Fred whispered, grinning dopily down at her, wrapping an arm around her waist, and pulling her, giggling now, down the street.

I sighed.

"Okay there?" Oliver murmured to me, questioningly. I'd almost forgotten his solid presence at my shoulder. I looked up at him. His eyes were crinkled in concern. "Oh, yes. Fine." I answered, slightly wrongfooted.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Really?"  
I smiled slightly. He knew me too well. "Really. It's just – well. They're so…" I gestured vaguely at the couples ahead of us, "…coupley. And cute. And so on. And here I am, fifth wheel."  
Oliver laughed. "Is that was you're put out about, then?" he asked thoughtfully. "Well, I take offense at that! I'm here too! We can be… we can be the fifth and sixth wheels! We won't be unnecessary fifth wheels – we'll be useful! We'll turn the whole car into a lorry!" He tugged me closer, an arm slung around my shoulders, laughing at his own jokes. I leant into his side, giggling as we walked down the street, feeling the slightest twinge at the brotherly way his arm rested on my shoulders, companionable and familiar and just like I was his little sister. I wrapped an arm around his waist, lengthening my step to keep up with his strides. His arm tightened and I smiled to myself, tucking my head in closer.

* * *

**Rewritten & updated! Please R&R! =]  
**_**Pack Up – Eliza Doolittle**_


	4. Whatever You Want

**A/N:** This story has been rewritten. If you have not started at Chapter 1, please do!

**Chapter Four  
****Whatever You Want  
**…_he half smiles as if to say, whatever you want…_

I stomped into the apartment, kicking rain off of my boots. Today had not been the best day. It was the week before Hogwarts' students' departure, and Flourish & Blott's had been a madhouse. I had been spattered with ink, beaten about the head by a few over-excited owls, my feet trodden on by a variety of first-years, and my hand crushed by an irate _Snapping Anthology of Snapdragons_.

On top of that, I was PMSing and hormonal, and generally pissed at the world. I dropped my bag to the floor and flopped onto the couch. _Ugh._

The door opened and closed behind me.

"Bad day?"

"You've no idea."

"Mmm." He walked over and raised an eyebrow, looking over me. "Come on,"

"What?" But before I could react, Oliver had scooped me up into his arms. "Bah! Ollie! Put me down!"

I could feel his chest rumbling with laughter as he held me closer, carrying me effortlessly into my bedroom. "So," he huffed, dropping me onto my bed and jumping on next to me. "What happened?"

"I quit my job."

"You what?" Oliver sat up sharply, staring at me.

"Yeah." I rolled away. "I know."

"No – no, I mean – I don't care. I can pay the whole rent, I just mean… why?"

"Don't say that. I don't know. Bad day. Got sick of it. Everything."

"Don't say what?"

"That you can pay - I'll pay my half, I will."

"No – Kat, I mean. I make more than enough – really."

"No! No… I understand that. I… I just… I feel so…so…useless, Oliver! You're out there being all quidditchy and earning tons of cash and all that jazz, and I'm here being useless and lazing about and watching TV and now I don't even have a job-"

Oliver blinked at me.

"1. Quidditchy? Is that a word? And 2." He smiled slightly. "You're not _useless_. You're so much more talented than me-"

I snorted. "No, I'm not! I _am_ useless – now I'm not even paying you rent? It's like I'm a terrible housewife, without the romance!" I frowned. "…and the ability to cook." I added, as an afterthought.

"Hm."

"Well-" he starts.

Angelina's words have been rushing through my mind all day, along with the bitter words reminding me how much Oliver does with his time, how much he must _hate_ me-

I sat up, suddenly, just as Oliver turned to me. _Crack!_ I hit Oliver smack in the forehead, an earth-shattering blow. "Augh-" I gasp out, just before falling back under his weight. "Ihateyou," he mumbles into my shoulder. Even with the killer pain in my forehead, and the fact that a 200-something 6'3" bloke is lying on top of me, I can still appreciate that said bloke is Oliver, and that this is a rather agreeable position.

_He's very warm,_ I reflect, as Oliver pushes his face deeper into my shoulder, which is awfully nice, really, albeit very distracting. The pain in my head is starting to decrease. Lovely. "Ok, Ollie, sweetie?" I whisper, running out of air. "I love you and all that, but you're – ow - kinda crushing me." No response. _Hmm_.

"Ugh-" I shoved, hard, rolling him off of me and – "Whoa-" he caught my leg and whipped me round, until I landed heavily on his stomach, laughing into his shocked eyes. His very entrancing, very deep, hazel eyes.

…

I am _so_ far gone.

We both froze, me in response to his stunning eyes, him in response to whatever happens in his world, and his hand tightened on my leg. He stared up at me in shock. A peal of laughter spilled out of my throat, and I giggled into his neck. "Bahaha – oh, Ollie. I'm sorry, but the _look_ on your face-" Then of course, it hits me, as he awkwardly averts his eyes and his hands leave my legs. _I'm straddling Oliver Wood. Ah. Ok then_.

"Well,"

"Yeah…"

I carefully disentangled myself, and stepping off the bed, offered him a hand.

"So," he began a strange little smile quirking his lip, "Missed me, then?" He started to laugh, looking down at me. I rolled my eyes.

"You're a prat, Wood. Always have been, always will be."

"Ah, but I'm your favorite prat, aren't I?"

"Always have been, always will be."

He smiled a bittersweet smile.

"Good to know. Anyways, want some tea?" He said, rather abruptly. I blinked in surprise, watching his retreating back. _Oh, Oliver_.

xoxox

"Ok," I began, slipping into the kitchen after Oliver. "My- I- What I thought- _OLIVER! __You're not listening to me__!"_

He spun round, looking guilty. Hot water flew out of his teacup. I ducked, fast. "Still have your quidditch reflexes, I see," He cocked his head, peering over the top of the counter. I glared at him from my spot on the floor. "No kidding. It's not like I had them drilled into me for five years by a tyrant of a coach." He nodded sagely. "Of course not." He turned to refill his teacup. "Much of a prince _you_ are." I muttered in annoyance, hoisting myself off the ground. "So," he began, turning to hand me a cup of tea. "What's up?"

"I had an idea. It's kinda funny we didn't think of it before...aha..." He stared at me.

"Spit it out." He froze, suddenly, a thought striking him. "You're not planning to be... like... a prostitute or something, are you? 'Cause that's not okay. For the record. Really not okay." I stared at him in disbelief. "BAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA...Ollie, you're hilarious... you're... you're... you're actually serious. Oh my. Um, no. Not at all. Actually, I was thinking of trying out for the Magical Law Enforcement Squad."

"Oh, that's different-wait. _What?_"

I blinked.

"Magical La-"

"Yes, yes, I heard you. No way. Too dangerous." He crossed his arms, face suddenly closed and firm.

_I beg your pardon? Really, Ol? You want to go there? _

"Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, _Mum." _I glared. "Oliver, I fought in a _war, _I _survived_ said war. I can handle _criminals_. Just because I've been content to be a lazy bum and sit on my arse here in your fancy apartment doesn't mean it's what I _want_ to do with my life! I want to _do_ something, Ol! And you saying something's '_dangerous,_'" I put on a sing-song tone for the word, "has never stopped me before." I glared up at him. "Get it?"

"I don't like it." he mumbled, avoiding my gaze. "That's too bad, because, whether you like it or not, I'm going to try for this job, with or _without _your 'permission'." He sighed and met my gaze, full of concern. _"_Fine." he said, reluctantly, "But you get so much as a _scratch_ on you and I'm pulling you out. Geddit?" I sighed.

"I've got it."

* * *

**Rewritten & updated! Please R&R! =]  
**_**Whatever You Want – Vienna Teng**_


	5. Bigger Than My Body

**A/N:** This story has been rewritten. If you have not started at Chapter 1, please do!

**Chapter Five  
****Bigger Than My Body  
**…_someday I'll fly, someday I'll soar…_

The next few weeks passed in a flurry of paperwork. I was writing out résumés, sending notes to my old professors for letters of rec, and filling out three different applications – one for the actual job, one for an interview and one for temporary security codes to enter the actual department. Clearly, the Ministry enjoys their bureaucracy.

My desk became a mess of half-filled papers, owl treats and capsized ink bottles. Oliver would routinely wander in to remove my stone-cold, half-drunk mugs of tea, pat me on the head and replace it with a steaming cup. I became an expert (a frazzled, frizzy-haired, sleep-deprived expert) in dealing with the varied moods of my favourite post-office owl, Elladora, with only a few bite-marks on my fingers. A week after I had sent in my last forms to the Ministry, Elladora flew in, hooting cheerfully as she whapped me over the head with her outstretched wing.

"Ouch. Thanks, dear." She dropped a letter onto my lap and snapped up a treat off of my desk and flew back out of the window. I ripped open the wax seal. Elegant, curly black text spilled down the parchment.

I froze.

"OLIVER-"

xoxox

"You'll do _fine_." Oliver slung an arm around my shoulder. "Augh! HAIR! OLIVER!" The letter had scheduled my interview for three days later, and now, here I was at the door. Freaking. Out.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry."

I frantically checked that my unruly hair was still tight in it's uncharacteristic bun.

"How'd you manage that, anyways, Kitten?"

"_Lots_ of magic- wait. _Kitten?" _

He blushed. "Well...you know...Katie always goes to Kates, then Kate, then Kat...but you're more of a kitten than a cat..." He trailed off. I considered it.

"I like it, actually. It's better than Squirt." That was Fred and George's nickname for me during first and second year. I beat it out of them, although occasionally they called me Squirt just to aggravate me. My mind clicked back into interview mode, which is, coincidentally, surprisingly similar to panic mode.

"Ol-do I look alright? Organized? Professional? They won't like me, I know they won't...I only got an 'Acceptable' on my Transfiguration OWL...I knew that would come back to haunt me, Ol- I don't know how to file – will I have to know how to file? I'm a _terrible_ organizer." My voice was rising in terror. He cut me off with a hand over my mouth. "Katherine Bell." He spoke very clearly and slowly. "You. Will. Do. Fine. You are a very accomplished witch, and you look fantastic, you're charming, you're smart, they'll love you." I bit back a reflexive urge to correct his grammar. He released my mouth, watching me closely. "Okay..." I said, slowly, breathing deep.

"Great." Not missing a beat, Oliver grabbed my arm and spun. "Wait-Oliv-noo-" My yells were swallowed as we were sucked into a vortex of apparition.

xoxox

Oliver kissed me on the forehead as I turned to him, heart pounding, the sternly lettered _Department of Magical Law Enforcement_ glinting on the door in front of us. "I'll be waiting," he whispered, smiling. "You'll be brilliant." And I smiled weakly, and walked through that door to face my interviewer.

The little man sitting at the desk did not look as though he belonged in the Law Enforcement. He had a dry, cardboard-like face. He probably shined his shoes every evening; he probably collected stamps or something equally colorless. He looked as if I punched him hard enough, he wouldn't bruise or fall, but just tear straight through, paper-thin. "Ms. Bell." he had a squeaky, hissy voice. It immediately put me in mind of a pubescent snake, if there is such a thing. "Um...yes?" He focused on me blearily. His glasses magnified his eyes crazily. _Trelawney? _

_"_Most excellent." He sounded as though he were informing me that my warts were, unfortunately, incurable. I blinked. "I am Mr. Parker," gesturing to the chair in front of the desk. "This is a necessary part of our application, Ms. Bell. We take only the most high-quality, well-rounded candidates. So, Ms. Bell...you want to join the Magical Law Enforcement Squad?" _Of course. Why else would I be here, dingbat?_

"Uh, yes, Mr. Parker." He nodded stiffly. I found myself wondering if it hurt to crease his parchment neck. "Hmm... on paper you seem an," his mouth twisted unpleasantly, "_adequate_ candidate. What practical experience do you have, Ms. Bell? We don't need wizards who..." he looked me up and down, coolly. "_buckle_ under pressure." He sneered, as he spoke the last words, as though expecting me to stutter and tell him of some little dueling club I'd fought in. I stiffened.

"I fought alongside Harry Potter, and the rest of the Order of The Phoenix in the Second War, I took the equivalent of a low-level aurors course living out in the _woods_, in _hiding_ for a** year** and I was a part of the vigilante Dumbledore's Army, and kept in contact with the DA in Hogwarts under the Carrow's reign, shipping in anything and everything I could. I do not buckle under strain." I finished with a slight sneer of my own. _Take that. _He raised his eyebrows, a surprised little "Oh." escaping his lips. "Well, Msss. Bell, we have a practical exam, that you will need to take...at a later date...if you could just, uh, fill out these questionnaires, and we'll uh, owl you at a later date to tell you the time for your practical." I blinked. "That's it?" He stared at me.

"_It?_ Oh, Ms. Bell. I promise you, our practical exam is quite..." he smirked, "rigorous." _'Rigorous', is it? Bring it on, shorty. Bring. It. On._

xoxox

Frankly, I think the questionaires were the most interesting part of the whole interview. Once Parker had left, I set to inking in my answers, marveling at how little he had asked me. The forms, on the other hand, were quite thorough.

(Favourite food? _Shepard's pie. Or steak...yum. And potatoes... _

If you could be a Victorian writer, who would you be and why?_ Uh... was Shakespeare Victorian? No...he was Elizabethan... um... _Muggleborn?_ Yes. _

Are you/have you ever been a Deatheater?_ Why would I be doing this if I were a Deatheater? (That's a NO.) _

Would you prefer blue or purple robes?_ Blue. (Puddlemere colours! Woot!) _

Do you subscribe to Witch Weekly?_ What does this have to do with anything? Who wrote this thing?) _

It was quite brilliant, as such things go. CardboardMan (I've already forgotten his name...oh dear) collected the finished sheets, dropped a massive stack of papers into my arms, hissed "Study materials." and ushered me out. Oliver was sitting on the bench, the picture of anxiousness, tapping his foot and staring at his hands.

"Katie! How'd it go?" He sprang up, rushing over to me.

I grinned up at him. "Perfectly." I shifted the pile of papers. "This'll be easy. They'll never know what hit 'em."

Oliver smiled, relief flooding his face. "That's my girl," he whispered, and brushed some hair that had escaped my bun off my face. (It really cannot stay neat.) His hand lingered on my cheek and for some odd moment there, I though he just might kiss me.

Then, of course, the papers slid off the top of the pile, crashing to floor with a very disproportionate noise. _Goodbye, moment._

"Oh, sorry-" Oliver said, breaking away to scrabble on the floor to pick up my scattered papers. We both busied ourselves chasing down stray sheets.

"I was wondering, Kates," Oliver began, turning to grab a pile, "There's a practice today in, uh, twenty minutes, I think," he stood up triumphantly with a messy stack of loose sheets, "And I was wondering if, well, you'd like to come watch." He neatly placed his pile on top of mine, then firmly took the entire stack from my arms. "I undestand, of course, if you don't…"

"Hey! I can do that- oh, fine. Be all chivalrous. See if I care...oh. I'd love to come, Ol! I mean, are you kidding? Course I'd want to watch!"

Oliver beamed.

xoxox

"Alright team!"

I started. An absolute bear of a man, with a huge, booming voice came striding into the changing room. He had red hair, and a close-cropped beard. His accent- Scottish - was just as strong as Oliver's. I was frozen. He turned to me.

"Where are they? You the only one? Hm..." He turned to contemplate his team's continued absence, then did a doubletake. "Hang on! Who're you, then? Sent to spy on me team, I shouldn't doubt! I'll tell you-"

Oliver came rushing in at that point. "No-Coach-she's with me. It's okay. This is Katie. My, uh, my..._roommate._" He said the word as though it had another meaning, and interestingly enough, Coach seemed to take it as such.

"Oh. _Oh_. Sorry," he began, rather guilitily.

"It's totally fine," I smiled cheerily, "In fact...it reminded me a lot of another quidditch captain I used to know." I caught Oliver's eye out of the corner of mine and he grinned, knowing exactly what I was referring to. "Ah. Good. Then," he began awkward, then picked up a head of steam and rounded on Oliver, who looked suddenly serious,

"Where is the rest of my team, Wood?"

"Uh," Oliver looked nervous, edging sneakily away towards the door he'd just come through. "I, uh, don't. Um. I think they're-" he dashed back inside.

"Hrmmph." Coach/Bearman growled, and sat down to wait. "Y'see, Bell," _How does he know my last name? _"We do this, oh, ev'ry afternoon practice. The little buggers are always out partying or doing something equally unprofessional. I mean, is that hard – when you have practice every damn Monday at the same bleeding time – to know to not do _stupid _things on a Sunday?" He glared. I was saved having to answer by a _crack!_

"Evans! Where have you been?" A tall, trim man had appeared out of nowhere. He looked distinctly rumpled and very tired.

"Sorry, Coach. Kelly's been sick, you know, and I've had to deal with the twins and, God knows they've got a set of lungs when they feel like it-"

"Excuses! Winners do not make excuses! Go change!" The man looked as though he might protest, but then just rolled his eyes and strode away. _Tom Evans,_ I thought, Oliver's voice in my head, _center chaser. Nice guy, twin one-year-olds. Oldest guy on the team. _

"I...um...don't you, uh, think that was a little...er...harsh?" I looked at him sideways, nervously. He sized me up for a moment, then smiled.

"Oh, aye, it's harsh. But they know I'm not angry. Otherwise we'd not get this sort of _insubordination_-" he raised his voice at two girls who had just walked in.

"Sorry coachie!" giggled the short, curvy blonde one, grinning cheekily. The other, slenderer and a bit taller had black hair and blue eyes. She simply looked apologetic, and both hurried into the changing room. _The blonde-Hannah Hendricks, beater. Oliver said she seemed sweet, but on field, she's deadly. And then the only other girl. Charlotte Greene, seeker. Quiet._

"We should have been on the pitch a minute ago!" Coach yelled after them. He sighed, and checked his watch again. Suddenly, he muttered, low under his breath, "Three...two...one..." _Bang! _Went the door and _Crack!_ split the air. I stared. One man stood in the door, Weasley-red hair in a mess, gasping, "Hey Coach, got hung up by -_you!_ Damn!_" _The other, a tall black wizard, grinned rogueishly at the man in the door. "Beat ya - I'm going, I'm going," he added, catching Bear-man's expression. _Kieran Dawson, chaser - redhead._ _Jordan Meyers – the other beater. Oliver says they're like Fred and George. What fun._

xoxox

The players, all uniformed now, filed out of the changing rooms. "Wait-where's Farrow?" Coach stood up, glancing down the line.

"Here, Coach, here. I was _intelligent_ and apparated directly into the changing room. On time, I might add," a little man with very blonde hair said, smugly. Oliver rolled his eyes. _Ah. Eric Farrow. Oliver says he's a twit. A twit that, unfortunately, is a brilliant flyer. _

"Right," began Coach Bard (Bard! That was it...) in the clear tones of a pre-practice lecture. The team immediately fanned out to sit down. Oliver wedged himself next to me. I let the coach's words wash over me, catching confused glances from a variety of players, and a particularly disapproving one from Farrow. I already disliked him and his stupid weaselly little face.

Oliver edged closer to me. "So. That other quidditch captain. _Used_ to know, Bell? What's that about?" he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

"Oh, you know, he was a decent enough captain, but well, just not a good person to be around. I just couldn't stand him."

"You wound me, dear. I take that to heart, I do."

"Oh, you thought it was you? That's cute."

"Wood? Got something to add?" I jumped at Coach's voice, immediately feeling like a student again.

"Uh, yes," Oliver began, "I was just going to say that while theory and form are..._extremely..._important, for moves like the sloth grip roll and the Hawkshead Formation, the only way to truly get them it to practice them on the field." He grinned up at Coach, confidently.

"That's...that's a good point, Wood," Bard conceded, "Onto the pitch, kids."

xoxox

"NO! Farrow - pass the quaffle to Evans! No - I _don't _want you to make an attempt on goal! PASS THE QUAFFLE!" Meyers, apparently deaf, went to fake out Oliver, and attempted to score on his left hoop. He wasn't a very good scorer. Ever from here in the stands, I could see the twist in his body towards the left hoop, entirely ruining his amateurish feint. Ollie saw it too, and caught the quaffle easily. But even despite this, I could see why he was on a team. He moved effortlessly, thoughtlessly, totally in sync with his broom. It killed me to admit it, but despite all of his unpleasantness, Farrow was just really one of those natural flyers – you could practice all your life, and you'd still never fly as well as say, him or Viktor Krum. Or even, I reflected, Harry.

"STOP! Stop, Farrow, you moron! You _need_ to listen to me! The point of the Hawkshead is to _intimidate _- something you _cannot _do." I smirked. I was liking Coach more and more. "And then you need to pass to Evans, he'll fly up and reverse drop to Dawson _who will attempt goal._ You are _not _a good strong scorer! I bet Bell here could score better than you!"

"Actually," said Oliver, grinning mischievously, "She can. Bell was my strongest scorer at Hogwarts. She's a solid Chaser, and knows Hawkshead like the back of her hand.

"Is that so?" Bard looked thoughtful. "Well then, Bell, get on up here. Let's see if you can show Farrow something." Coach grinned mischievously.

"Oh, no, I couldn't-" I began, but Farrow interrupted, not in the least cowed. "Oh please, Coach," he sneered, "We all know she's not better than I am. You _need_ me. Just cause Wood's in _love_ with her doesn't mean she's any good."

_You did __**not**__ just go there._

"Never mind. I can. Hand me that broom."

Watch your back, Farrow.

Prat.

**

* * *

Rewritten & updated! Please R&R! =]  
**_**Bigger Than My Body – John Mayer**_


	6. Down

**Chapter Six  
****Down  
**…_it gets me so down, down, down, down…_

I had the broom in one hand, and was almost too preoccupied with _kicking that stupid prat's ass_ – no, Katie, control yourself - that I nearly took off in my neat skirt-and-blouse ensemble I'd worn for my interview.  
"Um," I said, looking up sheepishly, suddenly conscious of my (no longer) sensible-looking heels and pencil skirt, "Anyone have some spare robes?"  
"Seriously?" Farrow rolled his eyes, turning his broom away. "Coach. Let's get back to prac-"  
"No." Bard eyed Farrow coldly, "You need a lesson in some damn humility." He turned to me, Farrow staring slack-jawed at the back of his head.  
"You're a touch taller than Charlotte, but otherwise, her's might work. GREENE!" He bellowed out to the field, voice like a foghorn. Charlotte Greene, seeker, landed gracefully and walked over, beckoning shyly to me to follow her back to the locker room. I tossed a wink over my shoulder to Oliver as I went, heart thudding.

xoxox

"Here," Charlotte tossed me a pair of jeans and a set of pale blue robes, emblazoned with the Puddlemere United crest, and GREENE across the back in navy. "Wow. Where can I get me a set of these? Thanks, Charlotte!"

"Oh – it's. It's nothing." She smiled awkwardly. Oliver had said she was a nice kid, just chronically shy. Well, if there's one thing Katie Bell can do, it's put shy people at ease. Or just drive them to extreme embarrassment. Either way, it tends to involve a lot of babbling.

I tugged my hair out of the bun, putting it back into my familiar old workout ponytail, smiling at the feel of it whipping behind me. As I changed, I started talking, faster even than usual.

"Okay, so Char – can I call you Char? – Farrow. Tell me about him. Weaknesses. Blind spots. I've already seen that he's an awful feinter, and a damn good flyer. But you've been with him for seasons. So… spill?" I smiled winningly at her as I tugged the robes over my head.

"What? Oh – um – no one's ever called me Char, but, uh, I guess – what? Eric? Uh. I-"

Okay. So maybe I wrongfooted her a little.

"He's… uh… this feels weird, since he's a teammate and all…"

I looked Charlotte up and down. I knew kids who played by the rules - knew the cut and measure of Percy Weasley the second I saw him. And Charlotte, no matter her shyness, her sweet face, had just a little bit of glint in her eye. This girl didn't strike me as meek – just as Neville wasn't really meek. She just needed a little space (and a little push) to show the world the secret badass she was.

"Char. I'm best friends with Oliver. There's no team I'll be selling this to. I even rooted for Puddlemere when I was a kid."

So that was maybe a lie. Holyhead Harpies all the way!  
Actually, when I was really a young kid, I didn't even know what Quidditch was, so-  
I digress.

Charlotte sized me up for a moment, debating.  
I decided to take a chance.

"Plus, he's an arse, and you know it. And you – I'm going out on a limb here, Char – you want to see him taken down just as much as I do."  
Charlotte cocked her head at me. I grinned, a Weasley-influenced smile full of mischief, and her expression softened a little.  
"…fine." She whispered. "He's weaker in his left arm then his right – his aim is always better firing on hoops to his left. He hates anyone pointing that out, and will do anything to protect his pride – even if it means shooting and missing or playing it dirty. But he's an excellent flyer, and can dive the hell out of anything. Always expect him to come at your from above – I mean, he'll vary it, but he knows most chasers won't dive on someone. And he's not afraid to try whatever he can get away with."  
I nodded.  
"Thank you, Char. You know, how about Charlie? Or Lottie? Actually, we'll figure out your nickname later. I think you and I could be excellent partners in crime."  
She smiled weakly.  
"I… uh, don't really have nicknames. Or commit crimes."  
I smiled innocently.  
"Oh, that'll change. Got any extra gloves?"  
I beamed into her shocked expression.

xoxox

Considering everything Char (Charlie? I'm liking Charlie, I think.) and I shared, I was in and out of the locker room fairly quickly, striding onto the pitch in boots we'd magicked up to my size. "Damn my overlarge feet," I'd muttered as Charlotte pulled out her size 5 (size 5!) quidditch boots. I flexed my fingers in gloves I hadn't worn for years. Oliver met me on the pitch, proffering me a broom – a Nimbus 2000.

"Really?" I ran a finger over the gold lettering. It may seem old, now, but I'd never been on more than a Cleansweep.

"Going pro has its perks," Oliver said smugly. "We've a whole shed of these guys."

"This day is just… is just fantastic. But going to get better. I hope. Okay. Let's see if I remember how to fly…"

And with that, I kicked off.

My stomach lurched for a moment, and I clung drunkenly to the handle, my balance tipping and my world spinning. Panic filled me – I didn't want to make a fool myself now. _No_. _Breathe. Just… breathe, Katie_. And as I did, my muscles suddenly remembered the years I had spent training to do this, the long workouts and countless hours. I sat perfectly still, feeling my body right itself. Then, with a wild shout of joy, I was off, spiraling around the team, doing loop-the-loops, rollercoaster-ing around, spinning into the sharp mid-air halts Oliver used to make us do at six in the morning to wake us all up.

"Oi, Kates!" Oliver's voice, to my back left. I swerved round, hands automatically up to catch. My fingers closed on the smooth leather of the quaffle, before I'd even seen it coming at me, and I grinned. It was so perfectly familiar – even my reflexes were sharp.

"Alright, Farrow!" I yelled, tucking the quaffle under my arm, facing him with my game face on.

"Come and get me!"

xoxox

Farrow dove straight for me, flat on his broom.

It was true – he was a killer flyer, better than I'd ever be. But I'd been coached by a fanatical tactician for six years of my life – some things can be ingrained. I shot straight up, as opposed to what he expected – down and to the right, since he'd been approaching at a left angle. I flattened myself and shot straight towards Oliver.

He came out of nowhere, a blue-gray blur that threw me off-course, and I could feel the superior strength of his broom as he ripped the quaffle from me. He was heading towards Oliver now, his eyes on the left-most hoop, just as Charlotte had said. I barreled after him, shouting from his left side.

"Gonna shoot now, Farrow? How bout you meet me on equal brooms, yeah? Or you too scared to be beat by a _girl_?"

His shoulders tensed in irritation at my words. I grinned as I swerved closer. I was more streamlined than he was – not matter how he hunched, there was no way for him to fly as fast with the bulky quaffle, particularly on his tiny frame.

"Oi! _Farrow!_ Suck on this!" I dove suddenly, hard and fast at his head, cutting off his viable shot to the left hoop. He saw me at the last second, and shot wildly to the middle hoop, which Oliver caught with ease. Before he'd even turned, I was already accelerating into the center of the pitch, ready to catch the quaffle Oliver had automatically lobbed back into the game. That was something I could take advantage of, I realized, plunging after the quaffle, ears pricked for Farrow, who was hot on my tail. My knowledge of Oliver – I'm sure I knew his game better than Farrow did. A whistling over me tipped me off suddenly. Farrow was going to divebomb me, just like Charlotte had said. I grabbed the quaffle and, hard as I could, braked and reversed. I shot backwards, just as Farrow, already overcompensating for my pulling out of the dive – which I would've, normally, plunged past me.

With a spin, I was flying at Oliver, determined to leave Farrow in the dust. I made it to the edge of the keeper's circle before Farrow had caught me up, throwing an arm across my face to knock me off. I growled.

If he wanted to play dirty, I would play dirty. Without hesitating, I knocked into him, hard, knowing he was already off-balance, and in that moment of confusion, threw the quaffle. Hard. Oliver's eyes had been locked on Farrow's arm, and he saw the quaffle too late. He lunged, outstretched fingertips just brushing the leather as it sailed into the right-most hoop.

_"YES!"_ I punched the air in triumph as Oliver scowled, always the sore loser. I scrambled to grab my broomstick, just as Farrow, struggling to balance himself, knocked back into me.

I'd thought it was an innocent mistake, the first moment I felt the impact, but in that split-second, I caught sight of his eyes – furious, hard and violent. His hand hit my wrist, the pain making me gasp and pull back and suddenly I was tipping past the point of no return and falling, falling, falling down….down….down.

* * *

**_Down - Blink-182_**

kindly read and review! thanks loves =]  
i promise to update soon and not leave you with this cliffy! :D


	7. About Falling I

**AN** - I wrote this in four days... and had major issues updating. FF was being a pain. But still, this is a week update! Hope you guys weren't waiting too long.. =]

**Chapter Seven  
****About Falling  
****I  
**_Why won't you wait for me?_

I woke up without opening my eyes. I felt pleasantly numb, with a gentle rushing noise of the edge of my hearing. There were blurry shapes just beyond my vision, I noticed vaguely, realizing that my eyes were cracked open.

_What is that?_ I thought, _that shape. I want to see it_.

And, suddenly, it was the most important thing to figure out what that fuzzy shape was. I concentrated and blinked, my vision determined to ignore me.

Slowly, painstakingly, the shape came clear. _Oliver_.

He was slumped in a chair, wearing his quidditch robes.

_(Quidditch? There's something important there… but what?)_

His eyes were closed, and I smiled slightly at his sleeping face. There was a tuft of hair falling messily into his eyes, I noticed. I sat up to brush it away.

Suddenly, my world was on fire. My back, my neck, my legs – each screaming out in pain. Oliver sprang up, rushing to me, as I was bombarded.

My leg was spasming.

_ Farrow. His sneaky little grin. _

My back was crackling, sparks flooding up and down.

_ My broom. Sliding out of my grasp._

My ribs were crying out a thousand hurts.

_ The ground. Rushing up to meet me. _

Every breath ripped into my lungs.

_ Bones breaking. And screaming… so much screaming. _

"Katie – Katie – oh, god, Katie – Shhh, shh, it's okay, it's okay. Fuck, Katie, shhh. It's gonna be okay. We'll get a healer," Oliver was whispering, hands fluttering uselessly around me, trying to find somewhere I wasn't writhing.

It was then that I realized the voice shrieking in pain was my own.

xoxox

Healers' voices were a blur around me, rapidly discussing whether I ought to be put back to sleep as I cried weakly into Oliver's chest, fingernails ripping into his shirt.

"Shhh, shhh," he whispered, eyes helplessly searching out Healers.

"Sweetheart?" a woman's low voice whispered, "This is going to pinch for just a second." And she injected something into my arm.

"A numbing charm, maybe?" Oliver rumbled over my head.

"Those have uncontrollable durations – I don't want her numb longer than we know – it'll skew test results. That potion should kick in within five minutes – just keep her still. Sweetheart?" that last one directed towards me, "Would it be okay if we put you back to sleep?"

"No-" I gasped, fear filling me. "No – I – I want to know what's wrong with me. I don't want to go back to sleep."

The healers whispered things behind me. Another voice, male this time.

"We'll be back – keep her quiet and call us _immediately_ if the pain doesn't go away. We're running some tests."

"Honey?" The female Healer again. "I need you to lie back."

"N-" my breath caught.

"Just… let go of Mr. Wood's shirt, please."

Strong hands gently, but inarguably, pulled me off of Oliver as the Healer, a youngish, curly haired woman, firmly pushed me onto the pillow.

"I'm just putting you on a drip. This is going to stay in your arm, just – _here_ –" the needle broke skin, "and it'll help manage your pain, long-term." She smiled at me, and briskly taped up the IV, which dripped electric-blue potion.

And just as soon as it had all started, the room was empty save for Oliver and I. I closed my eyes, feeling the pain begin to ebb away, such sweet, sweet numbness flooding my veins.

My eyes flickered open, and focused in on Oliver, still perched on my bed, looking more haggard than I had seen him in years. He was chewing his lip, and his face covered in stubble. He hadn't been home in a while, that was clear.

"How long have I been out?" my voice sounded hoarse and weak. I winced at it.

"About three days," he said softly, zoning in on my face.

I nodded, feeling my vertebrae shift, but not hurt. That could be worse. I'd been out for longer. But Oliver's face was like a death knell.

"How bad is it?"

"It's – it's not – "

"_Oliver."_

He sighed shakily.

"Bad. You – you fractured your spine in two places, and you dislocated your knee. Your broke your left leg, and three ribs, and your right wrist."

He looked back up at me.

"And… you fractured a part of your skull. They fixed that first, but they had to put you on all sorts of things to stop your brain from swelling and – and – god, Kat, it was so scary." His breath caught, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair.

I bit my lip. I had never had such extensive injuries, save for 7th year – but that was magic, not gravity. Oliver's shoulders were hitching and, with shock, I realized that he was crying.

Oliver Wood, crying.

Oliver hasn't cried for years – not even when we lost that match to Hufflepuff, when he retreated into himself for a week, utterly wrecked. I saw him, tight-lipped and dry-eyed at Dumbledore's funeral, neck tense and eyes blank, carrying Colin Creevey's lifeless body into the Great Hall.

Oliver Wood does not cry.

"…Ol?"

He inhaled sharply, and glanced at me – _were his eyes wet? Yes, yes I think so – _

"Come here." I help open my arms. "You're too far away." Obediently, like a child, he scooched closer, sitting so I could rest a hand on his arm, wishing I could pull him closer.

"Hey… Ol – I'm gonna be fine." I smiled weakly, and rested a hand on his cheek, pulling his face up. "Come on – you know me. I bounce back. If anyone, it's Farrow who should be worried – he's the one who'll really get busted up."

Oliver sighed down at me. "Nah, he's really cut up about it, apparently. That's what Charlotte's been saying. And the team-"

I dropped my hand.

"Really cut up? Fuck him-" Oliver blinked.

"Katie – I mean, you know I don't – don't _ever_ – want to see you like this but well – it's Quidditch. Accidents happen."

I stared at him, speechless.

"A- accident? You thought that was an _accident_? Oliver! It was no goddamn accident! He fucking _pushed_ me! He – he – didn't you see? He hit my wrist! He –" realization hit me – "He fucking broke my wrist, didn't he! Because everything else is on my left, isn't it? I landed on my left side and – and I bet the doctors were a little surprised at my wrist, weren't they?"

Oliver stared at me, processing.

"He wouldn't."

"Who are you going to believe?" I snapped, angrier than I have been in years. "Him, or me? I saw his face, Ol. He knocked into me, and he hit my wrist. How else would I have fallen? _One hand on the broom at all times_. That's what you taught me. Shoot and grab. Legs locked and hand on. No matter your balance – your glove will keep you. Dammit, Oliver!" I could feel tears threatening, "I didn't just _fall_!"

Oliver sat there for another three seconds, before straightening up.

"I'll fucking kill him."

His face was something I'd never seen before, set in stone and angry, angry, angry and I suddenly realized just how _big_ Oliver was. He was nearly six and a half feet of muscle and he was scary-angry. And suddenly he was pulling his wand from his pocket, cold fury in the set of his shoulders and stomp of his feet.

"No-" and I cringed at weak my voice sounded, how pathetic and quiet. "No, please, Oliver."

He froze, one hand on the doorknob, waiting.

"Please don't leave me here alone."

All the fight went out of him. His shoulder slumped, his wand dropped, and he turned to me, face ashen. Wordlessly, he pulled his chair back to my bed, sat and, gently, took my hand, holding it like an eggshell, a cobweb, fragile and delicate and all too breakable.

* * *

**_About Falling - Say Anything_**

This chapter comes to you in two parts. Sorry for the darkness! I swear we will be back to your scheduled fluff very soon. =]


	8. About Falling II

**AN:** Sorry for the long delay guys. A boy in my grade died in a car crash, I was rejected from a large amount of colleges and spent most of April flying about the country visiting some. (Anybody here go to Washington University in St. Louis? I'll be seeing you!) Thus, this sat half-written on my computer for a long time. I just couldn't bring myself to write about hospitals for a while. Now I'm off to finish studying for APs - but otherwise, my updates should be more often! Enjoy.

**Chapter Eight  
****About Falling  
****II  
**_But I don't wanna get lost in the ocean, now…_

Times moves strangely in hospitals. It seems to trickle by when you sit, alone and bedridden, but the moment healers or visitors appear, it stutters and jumps. Oliver stayed at my side, day in and day out, looking more and more haggard, even with the care package of clothes George had dropped off.

Thank god for magic. I was on constant Skelegrow and pain drips – my leg and wrist had already been charmed whole – but my back and skull were, they explained, too delicate to be rapidly healed, hence the Skelegrow. But it was still a fraction of the time spent healing if I'd been in a muggle hospital.

Three days into my stay, I started going stir-crazy. I spent nearly three months in the hospital in my last year at Hogwarts, recuperating from my curse – and I think I've had enough of St. Mungo's for the rest of my life. And when I get stir-crazy – I hate to admit it – I get _mean_. I snapped at the nurses and the healers, drummed my fingers like a madwoman and cursed like a sailor.

One week into my stay, I woke up with a crick in my neck, my back stiffer than ever, and saw Oliver, sleeping by my bed. It was sweet, sure, but _Jesus_, did the boy never go home? Seriously, he needed to stop babying me – all the healers said I was doing just fine, and besides, we still hadn't done anything about Farrow. I ground my teeth in irritation. Fred and George had promised to _really_ visit me the next day, Angelina and Alicia had said, the last time they were here, casting worried looks at Oliver, from his dour place in the seat. I flinched at my inner monologue. I had no reason to be angry at Oliver – he was just concerned, and besides, I had _begged_ him to stay, hadn't I? And it would really make me feel better if he went off and snapped Farrow's neck – no. (It totally would, let's be honest here.)

I sighed. I just needed my space, I decided. I hadn't had a moment without Oliver's worried presence in a week. Plus, he probably needed a break, right?

"Oliver," I whispered. He snored slightly. "Oliver. Oliver, wake up. _Oliver_." I sighed. "Oliver! Quaffle!"

"What?" he jerked awake, eyes wide. I smiled slightly.

"Oliver, you need to go home."

"What?" He sat up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

"I – it's been really sweet of you to stay, but seriously, you should take a break and head home. I'll be fine."

"But – no, it's fine, Kat. I'd rather stay here."

I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. Short temper.

"No, Oliver. You should really – you can't stay here all the time. It's not healthy, okay? You don't need to watch over me _all_ the time. I'll a big girl, Ol."

He frowned, stubbornly. "No. No, you're hurt. And I don't like the looks of that one healer. Kent. I should be here. I _want_ to be here."  
"Oliver, you haven't shaved in a week. You look like Bigfoot. And forget about Kent, I can handle myself."

"I don't want you to be alone here!" He was getting angrier, harsher.

"Oh, really?" I couldn't stop the bitterness seeping into my voice. "You didn't seem to care about that when I was here for _three fucking months_, Oliver!"

He froze.

"What?"

I couldn't stop the tidal wave of angry, teenaged, tear-stained words that poured out of me.

"You didn't visit me once! Not once! I woke up to a _pile _of things – from Fred and George and Ange and, hell even the kids still at Hogwarts and all I wanted was just one _letter _ - fuck, Oliver, you could've sent me a goddamn Puddlemere U shirt with a note "Quaffles don't catch themselves, y'know, sorry!" and _that_ would have been better! But that's – that's fine. If you're trying to make up for that or something – don't. I'm over it."

Oliver looked like a deer in the headlights.

"Katie? What are you talking about?"

"Like you don't _know_." I stared at him, his eyes wide and helpless.

"You – you don't know?"

He shook his head wordlessly.

All the fight left me. I swallowed, hard. I hadn't actually wanted to talk about this but – he didn't know? How hadn't he?

"In my seventh year. December. I got – I got cursed. Someone – someone imperiused me, apparently, and I had to carry this necklace – this old, cursed necklace and it ripped and it touched me and –" I sucked breath in gaspily, "t-terrible things, Oliver. I barely – I barely remember. I woke up a month or two later. I- you didn't _know_? How did you – how did you not _know_?"

Oliver blinked. His knuckles were white on the chair back.

"What – why the – why the _fuck_ didn't they – why – why did no one tell me?" he almost growled the words, teeth gritted.

"I – I-"

"The _fuck-" _His hand twisted angrily and the chair cracked under his fingers.

"Oliver!"

"Shit-" he brought bloody fingers to his mouth, grimacing at the clean slice from the broken plastic had cut into his palm.

"Oh, my god you're bleeding – _Oliver!_"

"I'm sorry Katie." He cursed again, shaking blood off of his fingers. He looked up at me. "If I had known I – I would have-" he cut himself off and looked at the floor, and spoke quietly. "…I'd have visited you."

"Oliver I'm so-"

"I'm gonna go, Kat. You're right," he rubbed his chin, absently. "I do… need a shave."  
"Oliver, I jus-"

"I'll see you."

And he shut the door behind him.

xoxox

"And we have _four_ types of chocolate – chocoate makes everything better – and those caramelly bits of toffee from Honeydukes you always liked? Those. Ooh, and marzipan-"  
"Alicia-"  
"And I brought a bunch of magazines – Vogue and Witch Weekly and um… MarieClaire? I don't know, I just grabbed all the girly magazines I could find –"  
"Alicia-"  
"Oh, Leesh. Shut up." Angelina turned to me. "Kat has something to say."  
"Oh. Um. Thanks, guys." Alicia and Angelina had burst in with armfuls of candy, magazines and puzzles – everything and anything they could think of to entertain me, an hour or two after Oliver had left. "This is… have you seen Oliver?"

They exchanged glances.

"No…?" Alicia frowned. "He's normally around here, isn't he?"  
"Yeah. He… I think I fucked up, guys."

xoxox

"He didn't know?"

"How didn't he know?"

"I don't know!"

The story had come pouring out of me – Alicia and Angelina were excellent listeners, gasping and chattering in response.

"And he just stormed out?"

"Yes! I just – I just don't know!"

"Damn it, Katie. I'm so sorry – I never thought to write him."  
"I just thought Fred would've…"

"Or that he would have noticed when you weren't talking to him,"

"I hadn't been."

"What?" Both heads snapped to me.

I frowned up at them.

"I didn't talk to Oliver all of seventh year. He never answered my first letter, and I never plucked up the courage to write him again. And then, y'know, I was out for all that time – and then the war broke out – I didn't talk to Oliver for ages."

Angelina stared.

"Really? But you two – you talked all the time. Didn't you write him after he graduated?"

"Yeah, a little. His responses just got shorter and shorter as he got busier, I guess. By the time we hit 7th year I suppose I wasn't really expecting a response." Alicia shook her head.

"That's weird. Something's not right about that."

"And then just out of the blue he asks you to move in?"  
"Well, he knew I needed somewhere to live-"

"After all that time? It's just… odd, Kat."

"Mmm. But, anyways. That's beside the point. What about his response?"

Angelina bit her lip.

"Also weird. Like – sure, I get that he'd be upset but… still, that's kinda a big response. It was a while ago."

"Yeah. I wonder," Alicia paused, thoughtfully. "I wonder if Oliver's known anyone who's been cursed. That could explain it. Or, I don't know, protecting you? That's odd though. It's all a bit strange, Katie."

"Most definitely."

There was a sudden rapping on the window. I turned, fast. "Ahhh - ow-" my neck crackled angrily at me.

"It's an owl," Alicia said helpfully, stepping up to jiggle at the window latch.

"Elladora?"

Elladora hooted dolefully at me, round amber eyes a little traumatized, holding her leg out insistently.

"I'm going, I'm going –" The moment I tugged the parchment from her, Elladora took wing, clipping the windowframe in her haste to leave.

"Jesus. Touchy much?" I grumbled, uncreasing the parchment. The purple wax seal had already been broken, I noticed.

"It's from the ministry," Angelina piped up from behind my shoulder.

As I unfolded it, a handwritten note fell out onto my lap. Brushing it aside, I spread the letter.

_Dear Ms. Katherine Bell,_

_We are deeply flattered by your interest in pursuing a career in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. However, in light of your current injuries, we must regretfully retract any offer of employment this department may have extended to you. These mandates are further enumerated in sec. 6, clause 2 (A) of the gainful employment application you signed on Monday last. Injuries incurred by yourself, ie serious fractures to the spinal cord and/or skull render you ineligible for Ministry employment. You may, however, re-apply for such employment once being cleared by St. Mungo's trauma ward and after a period of up to (but not limited by) five years. I hope you have an otherwise pleasant day. _

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Mafalda Hopkirk, Clerk to the Minister_

"Oh my god." Alicia's voice broke the silence.

I stared, shell-shocked at the parchment that cheerily killed every single one of my aspirations. _No, no no no-_

"Katie," Angelina's voice was deathly quiet. Something in her tone made me turn to her. She was holding the smaller note, her face ashen. Fingers shaking, I took it, a sudden knot turning in my stomach at the familiar handwriting scrawled across it.

_Katie-_

_Sorry I read this. Had to. Gone to kill Farrow. All the best. _

_ -Oliver_

Three pairs of eyes met.

"Shit."

* * *

**_About Falling - Say Anything_**

**_drama! R&R por favor. It'll make me super happy, despite totally failing my Biology AP tomorrow =]_**


	9. When I Get Home, You're So Dead

**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait guys - this chapter has been half-written forever, and I just couldn't get the ending the way I wanted it. But anyways, your reviews made me so happy, and thank you for everyone wishing me luck! You're all fantastic. Anyways, enjoy!

**AN2: **Also HOLD THE PHONE GUYS HOW DID I MISS THAT THIS PASSED 100 REVIEWS? DUDE. You guys fucking rock. E-cookies for everybody. You taste those deliciously sugary bytes? Mmmm. It's cause you're awesome.

**Chapter Nine  
****When I Get Home You're So Dead  
**…_the moral this time is: girls make boys cry._

"Shitshitshit_shit_-" What had I done? What was Oliver going to do? He was going to find Farrow and tear the little bastard to pieces – and then what would happen? He'd get tried and sent to Azkaban for the rest of our waking lives, and I'd have to visit him with all sad and lonely, with care packages of stupid pranks from the twins and little clippings of newspapers about the world outside, while the dementors followed me everywhere –

"Katie!" Angelina pulled me out of my panicked reverie. "We need to go _now_. Do you know where Farrow lives? Do you know someone who would?" She was speaking very clearly and very loudly, as if I was both foreign and a little deaf. I focused, pushing away the panic buzzing in my ears.

"Charlotte. Charlotte Greene. She'd know. But how do we…?"

"The pitch!" We both turned to look at Alicia. "We go to the Puddlemere United pitch. They're bound to have a roster there – all we need is to break into the locker room, and that can't be too difficult. They could even be having practice there."  
Angelina cast Alicia a wondering look. "You know, Leesh, that could work. But we'd need to go fast; Oliver has – Jesus Christ – easily an hour on us. If Farrow was at his house, we could already be too late. Katie-" she turned to me, pushed my hair out of my face in a motherly gesture. "We'll be back soon. Don't worry too much."

They both turned to disapparate.

"What?" Both stopped, wands in the air. "Oh, forget that. You are not going _anywhere _without me. You actually thought you'd leave me here?" I pushed the sheets aside, pulling myself out of the bed that had been my prison for nearly a week.

"Katie-"

"Ange, send a patronus to Fred and George. We're going to need backup. Alicia, pass me that bottle. And those pants, please."

Alicia stared at me, unmovingly.

"Pass it! It's a numbing potion. I'll take that, I'll be fine – they took me off the drips yesterday. Alicia. Trust me. You _need_ me to talk down Oliver. Besides – none of this would have happened without me. Please."

She turned to Angelina who watched me closely, debating. "Oh… fine. Alicia, give her the damned potion. We'll do this together. Side-along apparition." She added in a voice that brooked no arguments. "And you sit out the moment I tell you to, got it?"

I nodded, swigging the potion before tugging on my pants. Angelina tapped her foot until I was done, walking somewhat unsteadily over to her. She cast me one last glance.

"If you get more hurt doing this, so help me Katie… I'll kill you."

xoxox

"Charlotte! _Charlotte!"_ I wandered idly through the empty locker room, getting increasingly irritated. Alicia and Angelina had directly apparated us into the hall, and I had surprised all of us (but mostly myself) by guessing Oliver's password: 05151993 – the day we'd won the Quidditch Cup. Now they were frantically rifling through drawers and corkboards, trying to find any sort of contact information.

"Hello?"

I spun around as a male voice echoed through the room. A ruffled red-haired head poked around the doorjamb.

"Kieran!" He was the chaser that Oliver liked so much – a practical joker, best friends with Jordan Meyers, the beater.

"You're… Oliver's mate, right? Katie? I'm so sorry about what happened – I thought you were still in St. Mungo's. Coachie was talking about organizing a visit-"

"Do you know where Eric Farrow lives?" He blinked at me in surprise.

"Pardon?"

"Farrow. The bloke that pushed me off my broom. Weedy. Looks a bit like a rat-human hybrid-"

"Yeah, yeah I know Eric- wait, what? Pushed?"

"Not important. Honestly. Please, Kieran."  
He looked at me uncomfortably.

"Oliver's pissed and he's gone after him. I really, _really, _need to find him."

Kieran's eyes widened.

"He won't be home. It's a Friday evening – he's always boasting about hitting up the bars and picking up chicks – or something equally stupid. At practice today he was trying to get Hannah to come to some… some bar with him. The… the…" he was straining. "The Cat and Elephant? No… the… the…"

"The Castle's Elephant?" Alicia piped up.

"Yes!" Kieran looked relieved beyond belief.

"How did you-?" Angelina looked questioningly at Alicia, who was just on her _game_ today.

"One of George's friends keeps asking him out to these stupid muggle pub crawls and he keeps mentioning it as a meet-up place."

"It's muggle?" Angelina looked suddenly panicked.

"…yes?" Alicia looked from Kieran to me, suddenly wary.

"_Shit_. If they're going to duel or something stupid –"

I caught on.

"Then they could break the international statute of –"

"-of secrecy!" Alicia finished, panic suffusing her face.

"ThankyousomuchKieran-we've gotta go bye!" I shouted over my shoulder, rushing to grab Angelina's arm. My last glimpse was of Kieran waving weakly at us, mouth open in shock.

xoxox

"Angelina where did you put us?" I gasped, leaning against a dumpster as my head spun from the apparition. It didn't matter how much potion I downed – in all honesty, I still was weaker than I'd been in a long time.

"Nearby alley," she answered, pushing her hair out of her face. "Come on, we need to-" she paled a little, suddenly focused on something else.

"Do you-" Alicia cocked her head. "Do you hear something?" I looked from her to Angelina and listened, hard. Faintly, I could hear it. Loud, pounding voices shouting – something. Repetitively, like a heartbeat. Like –

_fight!fight!fight!_

and we were all running in the gathering twilight, pell-mell towards the door.

Angelina got there first, tugging open the door before diving into a crowd of cheering, jeering men.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before elbowing my way into the group, kicking shins that got in my way. I shoved one last tipsy, hairy arm out of my way and froze. Oliver was being restrained by two blokes on the far side of the room, Farrow cowering on the other. Oliver's face was shining with blood, and as I took in Farrow's equally bloody hand and the dark green glass shattered across the floor, I realized why. _That little-_

"You just stay away from her." Oliver was spitting blood and shouting.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want! You hit me and Coach'll kick you off the team. And then what'll you do? You'll have no fangirls to fuck, and that little bitch that mooches off of you will walk out the second your cash dries up."

Me. He was saying that about me, wasn't he? I stepped unconsciously into the circle, eyes fixed on Farrow, who was inching malevolently towards Oliver, his beady little eyes gleaming.

"Why do you think she sticks around, Wood? To be with _you_? You're just a sad little sucker that wastes his time on booze and sluts. And her? If she could play worth a damn, she wouldn't have fallen, would she? And you couldn't catch her, could you? You think she wants to be tied to your drunken ass? You think you could protect her? You're nothing but a failure, Wood. A pathetic, arrogant-"

I forgot that I was in a crowded bar, full of burly, half-drunk men. I forgot that I had just survived multiple fractures that, without magic, could have killed me. I just forgot. I only heard a snide little voice ripping apart the best friend I'd ever had, reminding me of all the reasons we could never work out. I stepped in front of Farrow, just catching the deliciously shocked and panicked expression that flitted across his face.

"Just _shut up_."

And I punched him, square in the face.

I'm proud to say that a long friendship with both Oliver and the twins has taught me a wide variety of things – and one of them was how to punch like a boy. Farrow's nose crumpled under my knuckles and he reeled, cursing wildly, blood gushing between his fingers.

"Shit. That felt _good_."

The pub stared.

xoxox

The silence broke with a bang. Angelina descended on Farrow in an instant, bending over him to surreptitiously stun him. Alicia dashed outside, realizing the crack had probably been Fred and George apparating into the alley. The room spun around me. Suddenly, everything flooded in and out of focus. My hand hurt like a bitch, my head pounded. And Oliver was still behind me, I realized.

I turned. He was still braced against the two men holding him back, jaw dropped. They dropped his arms quickly, taking in my face as I crossed to him.

_Smack_.

I was doing a lot of hitting today.

"You absolute _idiot_. What were you thinking? Do you know what we've been doing? I've been out of my mind with worry, Oliver! Don't you dare leave me another note like that! I thought you were actually going to _kill_ him!"

"I would-" Oliver mumbled, bitterly.

"-have gone to Azkaban!" I dropped my voice, trying to evade the ears of the eager muggles. "And how would I have visited you then, huh? How would you have played Quidditch, and how would I feed myself? Huh?" Hysterical laughter was starting to bubble in my throat. I was simultaneously laughing and crying. Oliver stared at me like I'd finally lost my mind. "You! You-" I swallowed, hard, looking closer at his face. "You've got blood all over you."

"It's not all mine," he shrugged, the barest smile tugging his lips. "And you've got a mean right hook." He added.

"I learnt from the best." I bit my lip. "Oh, Oliver," and I hugged him. "Stop doing such stupid things. They scare me," I mumbled into his shoulder. I opened my eyes to see one of the men who'd restrained him cutting looks at the other, with wide "bitch be crazy" eyes.

"Don't try me," I said coldly, flipping him off. He backed away, sharpish.

Damn. When did I become such a badass?

xoxox

Charming reconciliation moments aside, it took split seconds for us to realize we had some major damage control to do. To make things worse (better? Worse? I'm still not sure…) Alicia's return was preceded by two bounding, chattering redheads.

"Oh, dear…" Oliver whispered low, behind me.

"Hello, good pub!" Fred shouted.

"Ah, here's dear Eric," George added, equally loudly, bending over Farrow's prone body. Angelina stared at them like a deer in the headlights.

"Oh, hello, dear. Fancy seeing you here," Fred said conversationally, kissing her on the cheek. "This _is_ a charming place, isn't it? Quite…"

"Quaint? Picturesque? Mellifluous?" George chimed in, hoisting Farrow over his shoulder.

"Places _can't _be mellifluous, Georgie." Alicia had come in, casting an amused and exasperated eye over the twins.

"No?" George looked genuinely surprised.

"No. It means pleasant to hear or musical – that wouldn't make any sense."

"Fancy that." He glanced around the silent room. "What? Haven't you seen a well-vocabularied man with one ear before?"

"You know, George, I reckon they haven't."

"Really? How exciting! I'm one of a kind!" He beamed at Fred, who beamed right back.

"Oliver!" Fred ducked out from under Angelina's arm. "Bit of a bloody mess, aren't you? Shoulda seen the other guy, eh? All very nudge-nudge, wink-wink? Excellent. Come along, you big lump, then." He took the bewildered Oliver by the arm and led him back to George.

"Well, it really has been _lovely_ meeting you gents," Fred began, smiling at the silent crowd.

"Although you don't say much," George added.

"…and you seem, altogether, a rather unshaven and unpleasant lot, looks – as they say – can be deceiving. Why, at first glance, people might think George here and I are identical!" He and George glanced at eachother and burst out laughing.

"It _is_ a funny old world. Well, have a nice day, boys! Angie, Lish, Katie? Come along please." And, just as quickly as they'd entered, they left, strolling jauntily out with Oliver and Farrow in tow.

Angelina stared at me, mouth hanging open in total shock.

"Best be going, then," Alicia, who seemed to be taking all this the best of any of us. "Thank you for your hospitality, gents." And she calmly took my hand and Angelina's and led us, quiet and unresisting for once, out of the pub and into the night.

* * *

**_When I Get Home, You're So Dead - Mayday Parade_**

please R&R - hope the twinnies were a bit of a pick-me-up =]


	10. Think Twice

**AN: **Sorry about the super late update guys - and the fail on responding to all of your really lovely reviews. You guys deserve better. I'm starting the next chapter & trying to keep the ball rolling, I swear.

* * *

**Chapter Ten  
****Think Twice  
**_Think twice before you touch my girl._

We apparated into the little two-bedroom flat that Angelia, Alicia and the twins shared. George had unceremoniously dumped Eric face-down on the floor. Fred was sprawled casually across the couch, studying his nails nonchalantly. He glanced up as we popped into existence.

"Angie? There's an unconscious bloke on our floor."

Angelina sighed and pocketed her wand.

"I'm aware, Fred. _You_ brought him home."

"Nuh-uh. He followed me. Can we-"

"We can't keep him!"

"Why would I want to keep him? He looks like a drowned rat. Nasty temper, too, I've heard. D'you think he can breathe like that?" We all looked at Farrow, who, admittedly, did have his face squashed pretty thoroughly into the carpet.

I blinked. I suddenly felt a little woozy. The events of the past hours seemed to be slotting into line for the first time in my head, and nowhere along the way did I think they'd have ended here, with a bloody and recalcitrant Oliver slumped in George's overstuffed armchair, and a battered and unconscious Farrow splayed out on Angelina's favourite carpet.

"Oh, Georgie, you two were brilliant! I can't believe you got us all out of that!" Alicia leapt over Farrow's prone body to hug George, who grinned and picked her up, kissing her thoroughly. Fred turned to Angelina, one eyebrow raised.

"No thank-you kisses for the brilliant maneuvering?"

Angelina adopted the same expression.

"No rings for the damsel in distress?" she returned, wiggling her left hand at him.

My head snapped up.

"Excuse me?"

Fred's expression dropped immediately. Angelina laughed and, ignoring my bewilderment, crossed to Fred, now looking at the floor grumpily. She laid a hand on his arm, giggling even more, and tried to catch his eye.

"I was kidding, Fred. Fred? Freeeeed. Sweetheart. Honey. Freddy." She was worming her way into his crossed arms, grinning, until his stony expression finally broke and he pulled her closer.

"I… guys? Hello?" George and Alicia were still snogging in the corner, and now Fred and Angelina were making up (and out), even while Farrow slid with a nasty muffled squelch further out on the floor. It was positively surreal. I'd never seen Angelina act quite so… girly, for lack of a better word. It was unnerving. And Alicia – were they…? I exchanged glances with an equally perplexed Oliver, who'd finally had the good grace to look up from his crumpled pose.

"Guys."

No response.

"_Guys_."

Nothing.

"Fred. George. Alicia. Angelina. Weasley. Johnson. Spinnet. People. HELLO."

Continued kissing.

"OI. GUYS. ERIC'S UNCONCIOUS AND OLIVER'S BLEEDING. I'M MISSING FROM ST. MUNGO'S AND THIS NIGHT IS INSANE AND ALICIA IS POSSIBLY ENGAGED. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON AND IF YOU DON'T STOP BLOODY KISSING EACHOTHER RIGHT FUCKING NOW I WILL PERSONALLY RIP YOUR EARS OFF-"

"Low blow, Kates."

"SHUT IT, GEORGE."

_Ah. _

I stopped shouting. George still had an arm around Alicia's waist, but they were both watching me amusedly. Angelina and Fred had at least paused long enough to glare at me, before slowly disentangling themselves.

"Right. Um, so. Alicia?"

She grinned.

"I was going to tell you once you were out of the hospital and could properly celebrate but now…" she reached into her pocket and pulled out a ring. "I guess I can wear this all the time!"

I stared, flabbergasted.

"When?" I choked out.

"Just yesterday!" she beamed. "George knew I was so worried about you and he just… he just said he couldn't wait! That we never knew what life held and we'd never get anywhere just waiting around for the best moment!"

George was stoic enough not to blush, but simply nodded (although, I noticed, pointedly not looking at Fred).

"You're engaged?"

"I'm engaged!"

"Oh my god!"

"I know!"

"AHHHH!"

It was a smother-with-love kind of moment; it definitely warranted all of the girly squealing and wild hugging. I also may have trodden on Farrow a few times, although that was probably entirely coincidental.

After a good fifteen minutes of congratulating, in which Oliver and I celebrated our being back in the loop, we all collapsed onto the couch, still giggly from Alicia's ecstatic news.

"So," Fred began, wrapping an arm around Angelina. "As much as I fancy a nice bit of statuary, I'd rather he left our carpet. What's the plan?"

"First, Katie needs to go back to St. Mungo's." Oliver's voice, croaky and exhausted-sounding came out of nowhere.

"What? No – I'm fine. Let's figure out Farr-"

"You're not _fine_. You're supposed to be recovering. You're not even supposed to be out of _bed_."

"I _would_ be in bed if it weren't for you needing to be all _macho_-"

"It wasn't like that-"

"Yes, it was! And while I appreciate the _sentiment_, Oliver, I don't need anyone to protect my honor, or – or –"

"You deserve it! You deserve to have someone stand up for you when you can't!"

"No! Not when it means you'll go and get yourself arrested or something equally _awful_-"

We were twins in anger, Oliver and I, fists clenched, standing nose-to-nose in the middle of the sitting room.

"It needed to be done!"

"IT DIDN'T! I NEVER SAID I WANTED-"

"YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO. _I _WANTED TO!"

Something flickered in Oliver's eyes, and for the second time that night I realized how very big he was. How very _male_. He wasn't a gawky teen anymore; he wasn't a kid. He was tall and strong, and yes, charming and funny and awkward and sweet, but also, I was starting to realize, a guy. With testosterone and fists, and the sort of macho anger I didn't really comprehend at all.

"I wanted to hurt him, Kat. I _needed_ to." His voice was almost apologetic in it's softness. "_I_ needed it."

I looked down awkwardly.

"I-" I blinked and swallowed. "I…"

I looked up at him again, his eyes no longer foreign, but wide and concerned. I spoke my next words very carefully.

"I think the room is spinning."

And strong arms caught me as I fell over.

xoxox

Oliver delivered me back to room, causing – or so I heard the next day – quite a stir as he strode, still bleeding, through St. Mungo's with an unconscious girl in his arms. I remember waking briefly to catch at his retreating arm, before he squeezed my hand and the healers put me back under.

I woke this morning blearily, glancing around for Oliver's familiar form, and only really waking up when I realized he wasn't there.

I sat up.

"_Ow."_ So, maybe I overdid it a little last night. My head gave another pang.

Okay, a lot. Pain meds. Mmm. Delicious.

That doesn't sound healthy. That doesn't sound healthy at all. Oh well.

I downed the potion. They wouldn't leave it on my bedside table if I didn't need it, anyways. Along with – what?

I frowned at the table. Along with the normal plethora of potions left for my convenience there was a neatly folded copy of the Daily Prophet, with a handwritten note on top.

_Katie –_

_Sorry I couldn't stay. You were right yesterday – I did need to take a break. The healers said I needed to go get cleaned up anyways. I smelled a bit like booze. Anyways, you might enjoy this. We certainly did. _

_Much love,_

_Oliver_

I smiled and picked up the paper. And burst out laughing. The most beautiful photograph I had ever seen was plastered across the front cover. Eric Farrow, passed out, wearing a sparkly fringed dress (that looked strangely similar to a dress Angelina had gotten from her mother last year, with a wail of "What? Mother, _whyyyy?"_) and a pom-pomed party hat, perched precariously on top of the Ministry of Magic's centaur statue in the newly reconstructed Fountain of Magical Brethren. The article was equally fantastic, including a befuddled article with the – magically amnesiac – man himself, babbling confusedly about he could have possibly ended up on the horse, with the ministry and – I grinned – a promise from Coach Bard himself to investigate his player thoroughly. There was even a vague allegation, I noticed, near the end about Farrow's possible involvement with a recent Quidditch accident involving a young, unnamed Hogwarts graduate. I picked up my wand and, as carefully as I could while laughing, I cut out the picture and plastered it to the wall.

Best. Morning. Ever.

xoxox

"Fred!"

"Hey there, love. I come bearing baked goods from the girls."

He held up a plate of cookies with a smile.

"Alone?"

He shrugged a little.

"Yeah, well – George and Alicia…"

"Needed to get out of the house a bit?"

He smiled weakly.

"Something like that."

"Oliver left the paper here." I gestured at the clipping on the wall. "I recognized your handiwork, I believe."

Fred gave a proper grin at that.

"A gentleman never tells." He peered closer at the photograph. "God, that really is brilliant. I almost wish I could claim credit. But it's so bloody worth it. It really is."

I smiled.

"You're really the best friend a girl could ask for. I mean it."

"Oh, I try." He answer airily, sitting down.

"So," I sat up a little to get a better look at him. "As much as I love unexpected visits – particularly ones from excellent ginger twins bearing cookies – I get the strangest feeling there's another motive here."

Fred laughed a little. "Honestly? I thought you might want to talk about Oliver."

"Oh? Why?"

"Katie. He beat the crap out a guy that hurt you. Admirable – yes, but we all saw that fight in the – well, in my sitting room. And I saw your face."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Katie. Come one. I _know_ you."

"What did he mean, Fred?" I sighed. "I just – why? I don't think I understand."

"I thought so." Fred chuckled, "Some guys - and, alas, Oliver is one of these ham-fisted gents - are somewhat terrible at expressing their feelings. Instead of resorting to delicate and nuanced acts like certain dashing pranksters I might name-"

"Fred."

He caught my expression and sobered a little.

"Oliver's terrible at emotions. He's got a lot of things he can't really express, but Quidditch has made him a pretty... physical person, I suppose? I think he needed a punching bag that he wouldn't feel bad about, and Farrow was just the ticket."

"But, I mean, it's not like I asked him or…"

Fred frowned a little. "Well, Oliver's not your lapdog. I mean, he does do things for his own purposes, you know."

"Oh, that's not what I… that sounded really bad, didn't it?"

"A bit."

"I just… I guess I don't understand. It was just a release, I guess? But what did he need to… to express?"  
Fred's face clouded.

"A lot of things, I think. Fears and, and just… things. I don't know. He plays his cards close, Oliver does. Guys tend to."

He smiled suddenly, and grabbed the plate of cookies.

"You should have some of these. Angelina rarely ever does sweets, but when she does – and don't tell either of them that I've said this – they rival my mum's."

"I won't tell. Thanks, Fred. Are you-"

"I should go. I promised I'd only be out a little while, so…."

"Yeah. Thanks so much for coming by, Fred. I miss our one-on-ones."

"Me too, Squirt." He paused, and then leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.

"I'll see you soon, Bell." He ruffled my hair for good measure, and then turned to the door.

"Fred," I couldn't stop myself. There was something so sad in his walk.

"Yeah?" he turned, still smiling.

"Why haven't you proposed to Angelina yet?"  
"That obvious?" his half-smile dropped.

"I just… know you."

"I've been… not putting it off, just… I just…. wanted it to be perfect. That's really girly, isn't it?"

"No. It's sweet."

"Ha. Well, George just came out of nowhere and… I don't want her to think I'm afraid or that I don't love her. Cause I… I love her so much, Kat. I really do. And I'm afraid of losing her. But I don't want to just propose because of that… I… I don't know. I don't think I've ever been so afraid of anything. But I just haven't thought it's… right."

"And you're losing George, too, aren't you?"

"It's weird. I just…. I don't know. Everything's changing, it feels like."

"C'mere. Give your old chaser a hug." He ambled over, a sad puppy look trickling down his face. "I know you'll make a beautiful, hilarious, perfect proposal, Fred. And I also know that Angie loves you just as much as you love her. And she'd never leave you for something as stupid as not proposing to her before your brother. And I wouldn't tell her any of this in a million billion years." I kissed his forehead. "Now go home and hug your girlfriend and make ridiculous prank items and make sure my flatmate hasn't gone off and punched the daylights out of anyone else. Okay?"

"Okay." He smiled ruefully and turned again to the door.

"Oh, and Fred?"  
"Yeah?"

"I love you."  
"I love you too."

* * *

_Think Twice - Eve 6_


	11. The Future Freaks Me Out

**AN: **I've been watching a lot of the Office. Forgive me in any Pam/Jim creeps in. I've been working really hard to avoid it. =]

* * *

**Chapter Eleven  
****The Future Freaks Me Out  
**_I'm on fire and now I think I'm ready._

It took my healers a while to forgive my little jaunt. Kent, normally bubbly to the point of irritating (Oliver thought he fancied me, I'm fairly certain he's gay) was strangely grumpy and almost grimly triumphant when he informed me that, due to my 'recklessness', my release date had been pushed back another few days.

Hm. Sigh.

"We also," he added airily, fluffing my pillow in an unnecessarily violent manner, "were finally able to get in contact with your family. They're coming in today.  
"Hahahaha-" I took another look at his smug face. "What?"

xoxox

Now don't get me wrong. I love my parents, I really do. It's just that… well. They're muggles. And the wizarding world has always been a bit of a conundrum to them. And the last thing _I_ needed was my overprotective mother to suddenly ban me from playing Quidditch or practicing magic or – or - … did I tell them I was rooming with Oliver? Shit.

Just as all of this was whirling around my head, the door was knocked upon and thrown open in the same beat.

Eileen Bell had entered the building.

"Darling!"

She descended on me in a flurry of excitable kisses and exclamations. My mother is what you'd call… old school. She wears pearls and well-tailored dresses all the time. She still believes in elocution lessons, and girls that know how to waltz and wear white gloves. (Apparently, there's a specific way. Don't ask me. I've worked really hard to forget.) But she's sweet and she's loud and she doesn't understand the very first thing about magic, bless her.

She refused point-blank to go into hiding when I asked her, declaring "This you-know-who fellow simply doesn't know what he's getting into! Bells do not _run_ from anyone, Katherine. We stand and hold our ground. And possibly send sternly worded letters to the county board." (Did I mention she's the only person who still calls me 'Katherine'? I hate it.) Dad, on the other hand, is quieter and softer, and followed the whirling dervish of my mum into the on old leather shoes, concern in every worn line of his face. We get on very well, Dad and I. He even let me try to teach him how to fly. I don't think he quite fancied it, but he wasn't half-bad.

"Mum! Dad! I – ow, Mum, you're crushing me – I –"

My mum was bloody everywhere. In fact, she was so overwhelming, I almost missed the unmistakable shape that sidled in after them, grinning snarkily at the over-enthusiastic greeting.

_Oho, Ollie. Shut up. _

"I really cannot _believe_, Katherine, that you never told us! Or that any of your charming little friends didn't contact us! I mean, we've only known Angelina and Alicia for _years_, and no one thought to tell us you'd nearly died? Goodness, honey, I've just been a _disaster_. I mean, it was lovely of this young man-" she cast a massive smile in Oliver's direction, "to phone us, but _really_, Katherine."

"I'm so sorry, Mum. I-"

"And you're so _skinny_, Katherine…"

As she babbled on, she deposited her things into the only available chair, gesturing wildly.

"Telephone?" I mouthed covertly at Oliver, eyebrows raised, honestly a little impressed.

He winked at me.

"…and are you still rooming with the girls in London, dear? On that strange little street? You just never _call_ us anymore, sweetheart and we really do worry, with all these magical disasters…"

"It was a total accident, Mum. It could have happened to anyone. And they're doing a great job patching me up here – see –" I gestured at the bottles scattered over my endtable.

My parents had slowly come to trust the hospital over my long stay, but were still wary of magic. The idea that there was something as innocuous as a _necklace_ that could have put me out of commission for months terrified them.

My dad was watching our exchange with his own trademark half smile. He was nearly as tall as Oliver, but bookish and thin where Oliver was wide and burly.

"Easy, Eileen. Go easy on her. She's had a rough time of it." He walked over to push my hair out of my face. "How're you feeling, Kat?"

"I'm pretty good, Dad." I grinned. "So…you two have met Oliver?"

"Yes! Is he the one you kept mentioning…?"

"I-"

"Because he _is_ cute," she stage-whispered and then winked at me.

"Mother!"

I'm going to _kill_ you.

"At least someone appreciates my boyish charm." Oliver offered, sauntering over in a totally unnecessarily attractive way.

"If you're appreciated anymore than you already are, your ego would swell to dangerous proportions."

"You wound me, Bell. Mrs. Bell, thank you." And he smiled oh-so-smarmily at my mother. _Wood_. _Stop it_.

"Such a cutie," Mum said affectionately, patting him on the arm. "When are you going to get a boyfriend, Katie? I like him."

"MOTHER."

"I'm just _saying_, sweetheart, that you're young but, well… grandbabies… someday…"

"Dear god. Please stop. Please stop _right now_."

"Honey…" Dad started.

"I was only saying!"

"Oliver is just my _roommate_, Mom!"

Oops.

Mum froze and turned, creepily slowly to me.

"Excuse me? _You_ said you were rooming with Angelina and Alicia. _Girls_."

"Eileen-"

"Martin. Not. Now." She narrowed her eyes in a way that made me want to shrink into the pillow. "You _lied_ to me, Katherine. You're staying with a boy? You, an eighteen-year-old girl? What will people _think?_"

"Oh, bloody hell, Mum-"

"Language!"

"No one knows! None of your friends know, and none of my friends _care_. And besides-"

"You have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Bell." Oliver was stepping, totally unaware of the danger he was putting himself in. _Don't do it Oliver. She's like a basilisk. One look can kill. Don't-_

"Katie's like my little sister. I simply thought that, in the wake of such dangerous, unpredictable times we've been having in the wizarding world that it would be safer for Katie to live with someone who was…. Looking out for her. I'd never try anything, Mr. and Mrs. Bell. Trust me."

Oliver. My big brother. Great. A sudden surge of bitterness filled me. Of course Oliver wouldn't try anything. I wasn't super skinny and tanned and blonde.

I was so lost in my angst that I almost forgot about the situation at hand. Mum was considering Oliver closely, clearly pondering some intangible. "You know that Martin and I care very deeply about our daughter."

"As do I-" Oliver, added, quickly. I bit back a smile.

"But I can't lie and say I hadn't wished I could be there with her all the time. You do seem like a good boy, but…"

"Give him a chance, Eileen." Dad was finally cutting in. "And give Katie some credit. She's a good girl, and she's a tough girl. Oliver seems like a nice boy, and I trust Katie's judgment. And it's not like they're dating, anyways."

I smiled awkwardly.

Mum still looked grumpily on the edge.

"Annnyways," Oliver cut in, smiling broadly. "Mrs. Wood, I think you promised to tell me that story about Katie's first day of kindergarten?" I glared at him. Shook my head.

"Don't you dare." I mouthed.

"With the feathers and the housedress?" Oliver grinned evilly. Baby stories always tipped mum over the edge.

"Oh, heavens. _That_ story. Well, when Katie was young, she had the strangest obsessions…"

Oh god, kill me now.

xoxox

Nearly an hour of embarrassing stories later, I was sitting, still mortified with a wildly engrossed Oliver. My mother, now, simply adored him, seeing as he cheerfully and politely listened to every terrible story she could dredge up from my childhood. I do have to hand it to him, however, that we successfully avoided the topics of Quidditch, my living arrangements and magic, meaning that my parents were kept happy. After some promises to call more often and visit the home, and some half-hearted arguing about the hospital bill with my father, (What? They're my parents – who am I to say they can't still pay my bills? Don't give me that look.) they finally decided to clock out, promising to visit me again before my release.

The very moment the door clicked shut, I descended on Oliver.

"You absolute _bastard_! You terrible, smarmy, snarky _git!_" I cried, whacking him repeatedly over the head with one of Alicia's magazines.

"Mercy, mercy!" he laughed, catching my arm easily and unquestionably. "It was just too easy, Kat. Besides, they needed to know. And what can I say? Mothers just _love_ me."

I groaned.

"Oh god. I could have _killed_ her."

"I liked the one where you turned the one little boy blue. Annndtheonewhereyouwetthebed'tilyouwere12."

"Ugh, you mean Jacob? He was just so awful! Wait. What?"

"I mean, _twelve_." He beamed.

"SHE TOLD YOU THAT?"

Oliver was actually roaring with laughter.

"I **HATE** YOU! I HATE HER!"

"Ohhhh, no, no, no…" he chuckled, pulling me into an irresistible hug. "You don't hate us. Nahhh," he whispered into my hair, laughter still rippling through his chest. "Besides. I almost think it's cute. It's cute she remembers all of those stories, anyways. And you don't wet the bed now, anyways, and that's what's important."

I could feel the blush rushing down my cheeks. "Can we please never talk about this again?" I mumbled into his chest. "I don't think I can take any more embarrassment today. Ughhhhh let's just leave the country now. Let's just never, ever see my mother again."

"Awww." He ruffled my hair. "You're cute when you're embarrassed. And, you know, not peeing."

"I know where you sleep, Wood. Keep talking. _I dare ya._"

Oliver froze at my menacing little whisper.

"That's what I thought."

And for the second time that day, the door banged open with a _crack!_

And the entirety of the Puddlemere United professional Quidditch team, complete with, from what I could see, flowers and chocolate, with an utterly bemused-looking Coach Bard, froze in the doorframe.

Aha. Excellent.

xoxox

"Coach!" Oliver leapt off of my bed in record-breaking time. "Guys! I… I didn't realize we were visiting today!" He was awkwardly scooting away from me, hands deep in his pockets, embarrassment suffusing his face.

Awkward silence filled the room.

"…hi guys!" All eyes snapped to my face. "That's… so sweet of you to visit me! Uh. What's up?"

Thank the lord for coaching instincts. One look at all of our bewildered faces and Bard took over. "Bell! Good to see you up and, uh, functioning."

I winced.

"The team here," he continued, waving to include the entire room, or (possibly) the entire wing, "and I agreed that it'd be best form to come visit you! And suchlike. Since Wood's been pretty much MIA from every recent session," he raised an eyebrow at Oliver, who backed further into a corner, grinning sheepishly.

_Aha. _

"…he probably missed these plans. Bell, do you have any clue how difficult it is to get the damn boy to focus? If this weren't all the bloody fool Farrow's fault, I'd really like to give you a stern talking-to about the state you've put my team in. We've got a match in a week!"

I blinked. He'd changed tact without any warning.

"I… I'm sorry, Coach, did you want me to apologize?"

"Oh, heavens, no," he waved away my question like an irksome fly, whacking Kieran around the head as he did so. "Oh, bloody hell. Boys, put down those damn things. File in, you lot!"

The team headed in obediently, cautiously spacing themselves out into the tiny room, Charlotte catching my eye to smile briefly.

"Right. Well, Ms. Bell, we here at Puddlemere would like to apologize deeply for the actions of our former chaser."

"Former?" Oliver looked just as confused as I did, his eyes fixed on Bard's bushy mustache.

"Yes, former – dammit, Wood, you should know this – I terminated Eric's contract this morning. This whole… incident was the sort of press the team didn't need, and, generally, the icing on the rather nasty cake Eric was."

An odd image of Farrow dressed as a cupcake popped into my head. I blinked. Ew.

"So," Bard continued, oblivious to my strange mental images, "Our lawyers wanted me to have a chat with you about this… madness. And the team and I wanted to have a chat about-"

"Oh, just get on with it, Coachie!" Hannah piped up from the corner where she sat with Charlotte.

"Really," Jordan added. "This is dragging on, Coach. It can't possibly take you _this_ long-"

"Alright!" Coach shushed him with another extravagant arm gesture. "In exchange for you not trying to press charges for all of this, I'd like to offer you the – currently temporary – position of left-wing chaser."

"Excuse me?" I must have been hearing wrong. That almost sounded like-

"Would you like to play quidditch professionally, Bell?"

My jaw dropped.

"Seriously? You're not… you're not kidding?"

"I don't kid, Bell." His eyebrows drew sternly together and, in that moment, I suddenly realized that Coach Bard looked _just_ like Gimli the dwarf. Crap. What a terrible moment for a really funny discovery. Must tell Oliver.

Oliver. Woah. I'd be going to hours of practices with him. Playing Quidditch. All the time. Making money.

Oh my god.

"Oh, do it, Katie! It'd be brilliant to have another girl on the team!" Hannah was grinning, slinging an arm around Charlotte. "We always feel like such a minority. Plus, you're-"

"You're a damn good flyer, Bell. A little rusty, but if what Wood here tells us is true, you've proven yourself a good player at Hogwarts. This is the big leagues, but I'm willing to put a bet on you making it, Bell. What do you say?"

"What about the reserves?" Wasn't there some sort of… rhyme or reason to how these things normally played out?

"You'll be on probation, of course, but the second string boys have none of the flair we need. They're fine to sub in but they have no… no _spark_, Bell."

"Katie."

"_Bell."_

"Oookay."

Keiran winked at me. "He doesn't call anyone by their first name. It's a coach thing, I think."

"Well?"  
"I – uh –" I stared around the room wildly. "Yes! Of course yes!" Hannah cheered.

Oliver stared at me.

"Is that it? I'm just…. I'm just on?"

"Pretty much." Coach grinned.

I'm going to be a professional Quidditch player. I'm going to be a professional Quidditch player!

* * *

**_The Future Freaks Me Out - Motion City Soundtrack_**


	12. Crazy Beautiful Life

**AN: **Special thanks to the lovely _chanalizah _for her very dedicated and insightful reviews! Thanks, of course, to _everyone_ who reviews. You guys are the best.

**Chapter Twelve  
****Crazy Beautiful Life  
**_I'm in love, alright – with my crazy beautiful life._

* * *

There is really nothing like being confined in a hospital to really, truly appreciate the _freedom_ of everyday life. Two weeks into my stay, I had no qualms at all bidding my healers a fond adieu, nearly skipping out of St. Mungo's, complete with my glorious clean bill of health. Papers were sent to Coach, I signed several temporary contracts and within a week, my life was unrecognizable. I was almost immediately enrolled in team workouts. While Puddlemere continued to play one of their second-string chasers in games, I was thrown into practices. It was exhausting. Oliver had, obviously, been instructed to get me back into shape – not that I was _fat_ or anything - because let's be clear right now guys: I am not fat.

I had, however, gotten a little… softer than I was when I was playing quidditch all the time, with a slightly embarrassing belly and – I'll admit it – a total inability to run more than a mile. Plus, sitting on my butt in St. Mungo's for half a month hadn't done anything to help. I'd been planning to lose the weight, but, well… I like to ease into things slowly. Maybe I'd run every other day or so, or gradually cut out, I don't know, chocolate. No, wait, I love chocolate. Something else unhealthy.

But there is no such half-assedness in the Wood household. We were up every morning at six, Oliver pulling me unceremoniously from my bed, tossing trainers and workout clothes in my face. After running (panting and spluttering) our three-mile circuit the first few days with a headache from the crack of my rubber soles smacking me in the face, I actually started to wake up enough to catch them.

"Come on, lass!" Oliver was insultingly peppy in the mornings, prodding me in the back as I faltered on our runs, heart pounding pathetically. Most days, the only thing I said to him was a constant, under-my-breath chant of "IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou…", even though he did have the good grace to never laugh when I took a desperately needed walk-break mid circuit. Seemingly overnight, such breakfasts like bangers & mash and pancakes were no longer an option – yoghurt and granola and fruit was all our flat was stocked with. I must admit, the first day, I threw a bit of a fit.

"Hang on, you've been playing Quidditch all this time, and you haven't had to eat like a bleeding diet queen."

"Nope," Oliver agreed, blending up a frighteningly green protein shake, "But I'm a bloke with a massive metabolism. And I was playing games every week and practicing every day. Once you get into game mode, we can lay off the diet food a little. But I ate like this while I was on the reserves. Coach wants you in the best shape possible as quickly as possible. Drink up."

I could barely argue, mainly because I was so tired. We ran, we did cross-fit exercises and weight-training all morning – and that was before I even saw the rest of the team. I joined them on drill practices every other afternoon, and observed – taking notes at Coach's command – all of the game play practices the other days. If anyone is an expert in Puddlemere tactics and plays, it is this girl here.

"Coach'll put you into those practices after the next game," Oliver explained. "For now, we need Colin – the reserve player – in strategy practices. He's got to know what's going on, but this one coming up is probably his last game. He's capable, but predictable. No one's seen you play. We've got a month of no games after this one – he'll start you then. 'Til then." He grinned mischievously. "You're mine."

Cute, until you realized that what he meant was that I had more time for _more friggin workouts_. For a while, I had forgotten what a Nazi Oliver was at Hogwarts. I had fond memories of our Quidditch days, reminisced about the long practices and team camaraderie. I promise you, I remember now. I totally remember how insanely fanatical he was back at Hogwarts. I can recollect the miserable, rain-filled dawn practices. _Frankly_, I mused, nursing my aching limbs, stretched out sweaty and weak on the carpet by the television, _I think he's gotten worse._

On that note, want to know something that's not fun? Working out with your crush. Have you ever tried to look cute sweating and exhausted at six in the morning? It's _pointless_. Seriously. Normally, I'd at least try to tame my hair back in super-tight double French braids – it takes at least an hour or two for my hair to work its way out. But at six? I'm lucky if I remember to whip my hair into a ponytail. Make up's out of the question. I don't even get time to brush my teeth, half the time. I don't think my unbrushed, unwashed, exercise-maddened self could really present a less attractive image.

Yet, despite my grumpy attitude, my various sore body parts and ridiculous hours, life on Puddlemere, so far, has actually been… pretty amazing. I spend a ridiculous amount of time with Oliver (even if most of it is out-of-breath and sweaty in the totally PG and non-fun way), the team has welcomed me with open arms, and for the first time in a long time, I have a _goal_. Meandering through life was all well and good but now, having something real to work towards is oddly exhilarating. I seriously recommend it.

Plus, now I have boundless time to try and coax out Charlotte Greene's secret badass. It's becoming a pet project. I'm pretty psyched.

xoxox

Two weeks into our workout regimen, Oliver strode into my room at six to find me sitting, fully dressed, shoes tied, cross-legged on my bed. Hair braided, I might add. He stopped short in the door, his mouth falling open stupidly.

"Oh, you don't have to look quite so surprised. I mean, sure, I'm not a morning person, but it's not like I _enjoy_ you chucking all my things at me." I giggled. It had taken waking up twenty minutes earlier than normal, but Oliver's shell-shocked face was entirely worth it. Plus it felt kind of… good. I kissed him on the cheek as I squeezed peppily past. "I was thinking the loop that cuts through St. James Park? Brilliant." I nearly skipped down to the street.

Did I regret choosing the longest loop afterwards? Sure.

Was it worth it? Absolutely.

xoxox

"Oliver, another minute of this and I'm going to fall asleep on my broom."

"Your reverse pass is still sloppy, Katie. Again."

"_**No.**_"

"Think fast!"

I whipped around too late to see the Quaffle whizzing at me, my aching arms moving automatically to cover my face, braced for impact. I opened one eye. My whole field of vision was obscured with red. The quaffle had been frozen in midair by a fuming Oliver.

"You didn't even _try_!"

"I didn't have time to think!"

"You shouldn't think! It should be automatic! A reflex!"

"It's two in the morning, Oliver!" With impending face-smashing avoided, I didn't even have enough energy for a proper row. I whined like a five year old, slowly slumping closer and closer to my broom handle.

"Quidditch games don't have a time limit!"

"Oh, and I am not running tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep, and four hours is not enough." I waved feebly at my face, now cuddling with the smooth wood handle. Honestly, anything was comfortable at this point.

"You need to be able to play under all conditions!"

"Mmm."

There was a dead silence for a little while. I was debating the safety of falling asleep in midair, against the, almost equal danger, of Oliver's wrath.

"Is it really two?" Oliver had flown a bit closer, sounding the closest to human (as opposed to fanatical Quidditch robot) he'd sounded in hours.

I held up my wrist as confirmation.

"When did we start?"

No response.

"Kates?"

I jumped. I might actually have drifted off a little there. I smacked myself in the face and sat up, determined not to fall asleep.

"Huh?"  
"When did we-"

"After practice."

"Six?"

"I haven't touched ground in eight hours."

"Ah."

I thought about that for a moment.

"You suck, you know that?"

"You'll thank me later."

"No, no I won't-"

I was swaying dangerously, and in one easy movement had slid off the side of my broom. _Flump_.

"Was the ground always this close?" I asked conversationally, gazing up at my broom and Oliver's darker shape, maybe five feet over my head.

"We've been skimming for a while."

"Mmm."

"Don't go to sleep, Katie."

"Mmf."

"Katie-"

I snuggled deeper into the dewy grass, entirely uncaring.

There was a deep sigh on the edge of my hearing.

"Come on, then." There were footsteps by my head and-

"Ow! Ow! Put me down! Put me down, you great lump!"

Oliver had thrown me unceremoniously over his shoulder in a well-practiced fireman's hold.

"You kick me, Bell, and I'll drop you on your head. Don't push it. I _will_ make you walk."

I stopped struggling and awkwardly reached around to pat him on the head as best I could.

"Nevermind. You're a brilliant pack horse. Nice boy."

He snorted, but kept carrying me valiantly towards the changing rooms, even when I subsided into a sleep-deprived case of the giggles, mumbling something about ponies and oats.

Yeah, you know, for a girl who just broke her back and skull, who broke up a bar fight and now is subject to a maddeningly insane workout schedule from a Quidditch-obsessed, sanity-starved fanatic, I'd have to say I'm pretty happy.

I must be mad.

* * *

**_Crazy Beautiful Life - Ke$ha_**


	13. Sitting, Waiting, Wishing I

**AN:** sorry for the long, long delay, guys. College is wildly busy. (And I, true to form, got _really_ sick, which - trust me - in college, just sucks. You still go to class, you still do everything you have to do, you just do it while feeling like crap.) ANYWHO you've got a nice long chapter here to make up for that AND another one almost finished, so that'll go up within the week. Love you guys!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**  
**Sitting, Waiting, Wishing I  
**_I can't always be waiting, waiting on you..._

"Okay, how is it that I've suffered through this boot camp of your's for _three weeks_ and all I've lost is five pounds? That's just not fair, Oliver."

Even to my ears, my voice was irritatingly whiny and girly. But still, five pounds! For all the pain I'd suffered through? Really? I shrugged my shirt back on, putting the scale away with unnecessary force.

"You're putting on muscle weight." Oliver answered vaguely, his voice drifting in through the closed door, growing louder as he walked closer. "I was thinking something simple tonight – maybe just soup and sandwiches?" There was a knock.

"I'm decent." I grumbled, retying my sweatpants.

"I'm beat," he said, opening the door. He'd just changed into his oldest, rattiest pair of pajamas and his hair still stood on end from the violent towling boys do after showers. (Really, what is that? Am I the only person that thinks that would be painful?) I bit my lip, fighting the urge to reach out and starting playing with his hair. I'm a sucker for bedhead.

"Maybe I'll just have salad. Or, I don't know. Nasty, cardboard-y flax bars," I sighed and started out the door, not looking forward to rummaging through the kitchen.

Oliver caught me around the waist. "You should eat some proper food. You've got a big day tomorrow. And you don't need to lose weight, Katie. You're normally not so… girly. I really am not getting the obsession."

I let myself be pulled into his side, yawning massively. "I'm girly! Just not bitchy! I am allowed to whine about my weight. You just have to deal with it. Besides, I'm still not in fighting shape. I can always lose weight. Anyways, it's just practice. It's not like a game or something. They've seen me fly drills before. It's not that big a deal."

"You're getting there. And it's kinda major. It's your first practice as an official chaser. Coach is sure to throw something at you."  
"Mehhh." I moaned into his ribs, leaning all of my weight against his solid bulk. "I'm too _tireeeed_." I nuzzled my face further into his side, breathing in his soapy smell.

"Ah, ah – bruise-" he shifted uncomfortably, pushing my shoulders off of his side. "Sorry. Bloody bludgers-" I stumbled sideways, jerking upright before he could catch me. He stared at my surprised face, guilt radiating off of him. Oliver had never pushed me away before. Never. A sudden awkwardness fell on us.

"No, no – sorry. Sorry about your bruise." I pointlessly straightened my shirt, desperate to do something with my hands. "I – we should make dinner."

I pushed past him, wincing. Sometimes I forgot that, despite our closeness and our cuddliness, Oliver wasn't my _boyfriend_. He was just a friend. He wasn't obligated to care for me, or let me collapse on him when I was tired. He was my teammate and my trainer. And my flatmate. Personal pillow wasn't one of his many titles.

"Tomato? Or chicken noodle?" I plunked both cans down on the counter.

"Katie-" he followed me into the room, speaking slowly.

"I'm partial to tomato soup and grilled cheese, personally, but I can always do chicken noodle."

"Katie, I-"

"I'm cooking for tonight. You do too much. Besides," I grinned. "I can manage canned soup."

"Katie, can I just-"

"It's just dinner! I can make food for my big brother, right?" I looked up at him, smiling wider. He'd paused, his eyes fixed on mine, his mouth mid-speech. I frowned. I'd missed something. "I… Oliver? Was there… something else?"

"I…" he had some strange, strangled look that I couldn't comprehend. "No. Tomato soup sounds good – but you can't make grilled cheese. You'll light it on fire again."

And he smiled his brilliant smile and headed to get bread, like nothing strange had happened at all.

xoxox

"Rise and shine, kid!"

"Ugh, Oliver. It's too earlyyyy." I rolled over, moaning into my pillowcase.

"No, it's just on time. Now get _up._" he scooped me up, blanket and all and hefted me effortlessly. "And you think you need to lose weight," he mumbled as I flailed at the sudden lack of bed.

"Putmedown! Ah! Oliver! PUT ME DOWN!"

Oliver considered my struggling form. He shrugged. "As you wish," and dumped me unceremoniously on the floor.

"Ow! OW!" my arse _hurt_. "You suck, Oliver Wood."

I peered out from my cave of blankets. He'd laughed at my discomfort, and then crossed to my mess of a closet. "Best get moving, Bell. Before I start throwing trainers at you again."

I winced. More pain. Didn't need that, today. Oliver grinned, holding up one shoe threateningly. I jumped to my feet, mutteringly bitterly under my breath as I headed to the bathroom.

"I'm going, I'm going. Bloody haggis-eating, tartan-loving, bagpipe-blowing..."

"Oi! Are you insulting my heritage?"

But I'd already closed the door in his kilt-wearing face.

Mad Scot.

xoxox

The locker room was a little tense. I was more nervous than I'd expected to be, a nasty little knot of anxiety growing in my chest.

"Hey guys! What's up? Who's feeling super awake and super pumped? I'm super awake and superMMMFFWH-"

Oliver had clapped a hand over my mouth.

"She's a nervous babbler," he said conversationally to a shocked-looking Tom. "She won't stop unless she's forced. C'mon, no, Katie…." And he steered me forcibly towards the girl's lockers. "Go… go freak out Charlotte or something. Whatever calms your nerves. And get changed!"

"I don't freak out Charlotte!" I yelled over my shoulder. "Oh, hey Charlie. Ooh. Sorry about your foot." I jumped off of Charlotte's foot as she winced, backing slowly away.

"No worries Katie. No- no. Don't try to fix it. It's okay. I've got it."

This team. So self-sufficient. I love it.

On that note…

I glanced around the room, eyeing my tempermental locker warily.

"Who wants to unlock Katie's locker for her? Anyone?"

xoxox

Hannah was sweet enough to unlock my locker, ("Katie. It doesn't even need a combo. You just-" she slammed her hand into the metal. I flinched. "_Punch it._") and I was now sitting uncomfortably on the main locker room bench, awaiting Coach with mounting anxiety.

"Oliver, why can't I breathe? It feels like my stomach is crawling up my throat. Is that a thing? Can that happen to normal people?"

"You are not a normal person, Katie," Oliver retorted, tying his boots.

"No, no that's true." I mused, unconsciously unbraiding and rebraiding my hair.

"Katie. Katie. _Katie._" He closed a hand over mine. "Leave your hair alone. You're making _me_ nervous."

"Oh." I refastened my hair-tie, grimacing. My hands immediately felt awkward sitting still in my lap.

He watched me. "Don't do it."

"Don't do what?"

"You're eyeing your bootlaces. They're fine. They're tied. Leave them alone."

"Oh." My hands had already been creeping towards them. I hadn't even realized.

"You'll be fine," he said, roughly. "What happened to the bravado of yesterday?"

"Yesterday my stomach wasn't trying to throttle me."

He grinned and ruffled my hair.

The door banged open. I jumped, wild-eyed.

Coach Bard with all his geniality and his unthreatening red beard suddenly looked like my absolute worst nightmare. Dear lord.

Oliver's hand closed over mine and squeezed. "Breathe," he whispered, breath close to my ear.

I squeezed his hand back, taking long steadying breaths.

_Thank you_.

xoxox

Most of my panic, it turned out, was unnecessary. Coach Bard briefly welcomed me to the first practice, and then launched into a long-winded and complex theoretical lecture.

He even had charmed diagrams that wiggled and rolled around the board. It took me a moment to realize that he was actually going to go through _every play_ for every single team we were playing in the next two months. Dear lord.

Oliver kept his fingers twined with mine the whole time, a solid, reassuring bulk at my shoulder.

I leaned against him, mind drifting away from Coach's monotonous words. Last night had been weird. There had definitely been something I'd missed. But what? Normally, I'd just ask Oliver, but for some reason that felt like a bad idea. I just couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe… maybe. I blinked. Maybe he knew I liked him. Maybe he'd been about to say something about it, and had stopped because he knew how awkward it'd make everything.

Oh god.

What was I going to do? Was he just trying to pretend everything was normal, hoping I'd get over it? But we'd already proven that if there's one thing I'm terrible at, it's getting over Oliver. Like, I am undisputedly the worst at that particular task. Really, truly terrible.  
_Crap_.

"Bell! Wood!"

I jerked up, starting wildly. _Oh, shit_.

"I'm sorry if I'm interrupting your cozy little _nap_," Coach continued, crossly.

I whipped my hand out of Oliver's, feeling my face redden.

_My first day. Of all days, my __**first one**_**. **

He caught the movement, and I knew, with a sinking feeling, that he wasn't going to let handholding slide. Bard's eyes darted between our faces for a moment, calculating.

"Wood, over there." He pointed to where the beaters were sitting. Oliver raised his eyebrows.

"What are we, first years?" he asked, insolently. I bit back a gasp. I'd never, _never_ imagined Oliver would talk back to Bard.

Bard clearly hadn't been expecting that from Oliver, either. He blinked, before composing himself.

"If you act like a child, I'll treat you like one. _Move_." Oliver stood, without looking at me and strode across the room, anger in each movement.

Bard watched him go. "This brings me to another point." He turned to the room, grim determination on his face. "Inter-team dating."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

_Oh, no. God no. Please don't. _

"Coach-" I started.

He steamrollered over me. "I am just _not having it_. Not when it interferes with practices and complicates team unity. Not having it!"

"Coach, I-"

"I understand this can be a problem to some, but if Wood and Bell would have just _disclosed_ it to me, we might have-"

He did not just – no no no _no_.

I tried to interrupt again, but someone beat me to it.

"Coach, we aren't dating!"

Oliver's voice was so cold, I almost didn't recognize it. I stared at him. There was something disproportionately angry in his face. He caught my eyes, something passing over his face, before looking away sharply, determinedly.

_Oh._

Bard looked nonplussed.

"What?"

"We're not dating. We never have been, and we never will be. She's like my little sister." Oliver glared at Bard, a cold glint in his eyes.

_Oh_. Suddenly, I felt my throat tighten in a totally different way.

_No. No no no. I am not going to cry. You will not cry here, Katie Bell. You will not. No, no __**no**__. _

If I could have just vanished, I would have. Anything to not have everyone suddenly awkwardly avoiding my eyes. Most of all, _worst_ of all, Oliver.

_Oh. My. God._

"Oh. Well then." Bard looked around shiftily. "Let's get back to the Wigtown Wanderers…"

I snuck a glance at Oliver, who'd crossed his arms and was gazing at the floor, a strange expression on his face.

I wrapped my fingers around eachother, my hands suddenly feeling very cold and alone.

* * *

_DRAMAAAAA _

**_Sitting, Waiting, Wishing - Jack Johnson_**


	14. Sitting, Waiting, Wishing II

**AN:** Reminder of the lineup!  
Tom Evans – lead chaser  
Kieran Dawson – right wing chaser  
Katie Bell – left wing chaser  
Jordan Meyers – beater  
Hannah Hendricks – beater  
Oliver Wood – keeper  
Charlotte Greene – seeker

**AN2: **I promised you guys a quick turnaround! So here's the next chapter - actually, I think, the longest in the entirety of Wooden Words. Enjoy and please please please review! (Thank you to imsuchanut, , Elizabeth Lullaby, firewordsparkler, and RonScorpius Lover (I always want to respond to your reviews, but I can't because they're not logged in! But thank you, they're all so entertaining!) for reviewing! You guys are lovely. =])

**AN3: **Yeah, I changed this to a part II. It just felt like a linked chapter to me.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen  
****Sitting, Waiting, Wishing II  
**_I'm just a fool, learning that loving somebody don't make them love you..._

When the time came to head out to the pitch, the team shuffled. The whole room felt strange; I felt out of place, Oliver was trailing along sullenly and even the normally ebullient trouble-makers on the team, Kieran and Jordan, seemed subdued and almost somber. I bit my lip. In all the ways I'd pictured this day going – both good and volcano-erupting disastrous (that actually had been one of the scenarios. Shut up. I have a very active imagination.) – this hadn't been one of the scenes. As the team mounted up, with Bard muttering some last words of advice as he trooped to the stands to bellow from there, I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder. A sudden hope flared in my stomach. I turned, but instead found Charlotte's reassuring smile in my face. The hand had felt too small anyways. "You're gonna be fine," she whispered. "You look a little peaky. We're all looking out for you." And grinned at me – a proper, un-Charlottey mischievous grin, and kicked off. I cut one last look at Oliver, who was absorbed in his broomstick, and followed her up, spiraling into the cool, crisp air.

xoxox

Practice was a disaster. Coach Bard had conjured up hazy, green quidditch player-shaped blurs that darted and flew like the Holyhead Harpies, the first team we were facing, so we could practice the tactics we'd learned.

I don't think I'd ever thought I could be beaten at quidditch by a _haze_ but it was happening. The only saving grace, I'll say, is that I was by no means the worst. Jordan's bludger went straight through one 'player' and cracked into the back of Hannah's head, causing her to curse wildly and fly into Kieran, who scrambled to catch her in midair. Charlotte seemed to lose focus after that, probably shaken from seeing her friend nearly decapitated, and nearly collided with me as she searched for the snitch. I dropped the quaffle not once, but twice as I was being charged by a HH blur which flew right through me, leaving me stock-still and shaking on the spot. The worst, though, was Oliver. Oliver, who'd I never seen lose focus in Quidditch, Oliver who'd never let in a single quaffle in Hogwarts games unless he'd been physically beaten away from the hoops. He was slow, almost sluggish, was fooled by feints he'd normally see through and actually _dodged_ when one blur charged him.

"WOOD! WOOD! WHAT IN THE NAME OF MERLIN'S TROUSERS ARE YOU DOING?"

Even Bard's furious bellowing seemed to do little to wake Oliver up. The team was clearly wrong-footed by Oliver's strange behavior, and try as we could to return from it, we barely could. The score was 50-0, to the hazes, and we were struggling.

I scored the first goal, with a fancy little barrel roll, I might add.

The hazes scored the next two.

_What the hell was he playing at?_

"What the HELL is WRONG WITH YOU ALL?" I grimaced at the shout.

A bluish blur whistled past me. _Charlotte_.

She pulled out of a dive, a triumphant hand in the air, much like another dark-haired seeker I'd once known, and the practice ended in complete confusion.*

xoxox

"I really don't know what the _hell_ happened out there, but it cannot happen again-"

"The hazes can't be holographic, Coach!"

"My bludger went right through it!"

"I don't want to hear the excuses!"

"But Coach-"

"The hazes didn't make Wood let in _SEVEN GOALS-"_

"Ugh," I turned away from the door into the boys' locker room, flicking my wand at it to silence them. "It's like listening to your parents fight, isn't it?"

"Mmm," Hannah nodded, then winced, turning back to the mirror to try to examine the rapidly swelling blue-black lump at the base of her neck. "Ugh. That's just nasty-looking." She sighed and let her hair drop back to cover it. "What an awful practice."

"Terrible." I moaned, lying back on a bench.

"You saved us there, Charlotte, though." Hannah added, glancing over at Charlotte, who was carefully siphoning mud off of her boots with her wand.

"I just couldn't stand it any longer," Charlotte admitted. "Everyone seemed so miserable."

"You're my hero," I mumbled, arms over my face.

"Oh, you didn't need saving." Charlotte shrugged as I moved my arms to better see her. "You were just psyching yourself out in the beginning, but once you scored that goal – which was nice, by the way – you flew fine. Why do you think Bard isn't in here chewing us out?"

Hannah gave a wry smile. "Give him time."

She shrugged again. "I think we're shot of him for today. I think he thinks we've gone through enough…"

"You're telling me," Hannah said, gingerly rubbing her lump again. I winced. That looked _painful._

"You know, I could probably pilfer some bruise-balm from the twins, if you like?"

"The twins? Who're the twins?" Hannah looked genuinely confused.

"The Weasley twins?" Sometimes I forget that not everyone knew them. "Of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?"

"Oh! That place! That shop's hilarious! You know them?"

"They're two of my best friends!"

"Ooh!" Hannah grinned. "Every try to get with that, then?"

"No, I-" but before I could say "I'm also best friends with their fiancées/girlfriends," Charlotte interrupted me.

"Of course not. Katie likes Oliver, don't you Katie?"

She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, not even looking up from cleaning of her boots.

"What?" Hannah looked as flabbergasted as I felt. "No, she doesn't…" she scrutinized my face. "Hang on. You do! YOU DO!" She grinned from ear to ear. "But that's brilliant!" she sat down suddenly, thinking more about it. "But that makes so much sense. Bloody marvelous. That's adorable."

Well, there was that cat well and truly out of the bag – out of the bag and into the neighbor's chickens, to mix overly extended metaphors. I glanced at Hannah, and bit my tongue. No point denying it now.

"Charlotte. How did you know?" Hannah punched the air, giggling triumphantly. Charlotte was the last person I'd expected to catch me. But maybe it's that seeker thing, flying high and observing everything else, catching the little movements and glimmers of things that are supposed to be hard to find.

"I've had experience with… hidden crushes. I know the symptoms. And I always thought Oliver had a thing for you, he talked about you so often, even when we were on the reserves together. So I sort of… observed closer than I would have." She flipped her boot over, beginning on the other crease. "I'm sorry about what Coach did, though. That was tactless."

"I… what? Oliver doesn't fancy me." I filed away Charlotte's 'secret crushes' into the "may be useful later" section of my brain.

Hannah and Charlotte shared a look. _That's the Alicia/Angelina look! Hang on, this isn't fair-_

"You're kidding, right?" Hannah had raised her eyebrows. "I mean, I thought about Oliver for a bit. You know, he's fun, he's cute. He'd have understood the Quidditch hours. He's actually kind of charming, when he's not, y'know, talking about Quidditch like a madman."

_He's cutest then. But, okay…_

"But then he started talking about you. And oh, my god, Katie. The way he talks about you. It's not that you hung the moon or he thinks you're that great-"

_Ouch_.

"But you _always_ come up. I mean, it could be the least related subject _ever_ and somehow, somewhere, 'Katie said' or 'Katie thinks' or 'One time, Katie…'" she grinned ruefully. "Seriously, the team knows way more about you than you think we do. It's like he can't help but mention you."

_Okay, that's cuter_.

"And I'm totally over him, by the way." Hannah added, grinning. I considered this. I can't lie, there'd been a flare of jealousy when she mentioned chasing him. There had been so much time when I wasn't a part of Oliver's life. Three whole years of boy hormones.

"Mmm. It wouldn't matter anyways, not with Coach's ironclad rules. Besides," I seized on the point bitterly, just _knowing_ that Charlotte and Hannah were – are – mistaken. "If he fancies me, what was that speech? The little sister speech? The _never have, never __**will**_?"

I sniffled. _Aw, shit. _

"Oh, no _Katie_," Hannah pulled tissues out of her locker and walked over to me, sternly pressing them into my hands.

"I'm _sorry_," I said thickly, trying to choke back the tears. "It's just today was supposed to go so _well_ and it's been _awful_ and Coach _hates _me and, I mean, I always _knew_ Oliver felt that way but he never _said_ it before and in front of _everyone_…" Hannah wrapped an arm around my shoulders comfortingly.

"Oh, Katie, I know…"

Charlotte flicked her wand and locked the door, before settling down in front of me, holding a tissue up to my face. "Blow," she said firmly, far more motherly than I ever could have imagined her. I complied. "Good. Now, Katie-" she glanced at Hannah for help.

"First off, today wasn't that bad, Katie," Hannah began. I giggled wetly.

"That's a joke, Hannah."

"Okay, so it was pretty bad – sure – but that wasn't _you_. And Coachie knows that. You flew really well! And we've seen you play and fly before. And you scored! The team sucked, that's not your fault. And Coach can be an idiot about…" she shook her head, "a _lot_ of things. But he's good about where to put blame, and he doesn't mind singling people out. You didn't rip apart the team, today. That was all Oliver. And he knows that. He won't blame you just because you're new."

"And on that note, Katie," Charlotte jumped in. "Coach doesn't hate you. Coach doesn't hate anyone, and I think he likes you. And Oliver doesn't hate you. He probably said what he said because Coach put him on the spot."

"Something was weird with Oliver today, Katie. I've never seen him play like that. Don't worry about it. It's _so_ not worth crying about."

"He was a little weird last night, too. I don't know, normally I can always get him out of his funks. I mean," I giggled again. "He tried to drown himself in a shower when we lost to Hufflepuff in my fourth year. And so I had to go down in the rain and find him and yell until he got out of the locker room. But we survived that, and we won the cup."

Hannah shook her head wonderingly.

"He's mad, isn't he?"

"A bit," I smiled weakly.

"But he's not worth crying over," she added firmly. "Right, Charlotte? No boy is."

Charlotte nodded. "She's right."

"So you know what we're going to do?" I eyed Hannah warily.

"What?"

"We're gonna put that new Quidditch body of your's – because I know reserves workouts and as much as they _suck, _you'll have killer abs – and we're going to go find boys that don't make anybody cry."

Charlotte shrank back. "Hannah-"

"No but's, Charlotte! We are going out clubbing and it is not negotiable!"

"How long have you been trying to get her out?" I grinned up at Hannah.

"Dear god, you have no idea."

"C'mon Charlotte. For me?" I made puppy-dog eyes at her. "It'll be – actually, hang on, I've never been clubbing before. Will it be fun?" I turned to Hannah, who looked utterly miffed.

"Of course it's fun! It's brilliant! And we have two clubbing virgins here?"

Both Charlotte and I blushed.

"Oh, hang on." Hannah stared at both of us. "Two _actual_ virgins here?"

Neither Charlotte nor I answered, firmly not looking at Hannah.

"Oh my GOD, girls! You both need to live a little! Right – you know what. Friday night, no – crap, we have early practice Saturday, don't we? Okay the weekend – no, that's a game. Ughhh. Okay. Three weeks from Friday – you're both getting all glammed up – and I mean heels, Charlotte, _heels_ -"

"Hannah, I can't walk in heels."

"Katie! What? No!"

"What?" I looked back and forth. "It's true! I'm a klutz."

"I just don't really like them." Charlotte shrugged.

"Dammit, guys. You're making this really hard. Fine. You've got three weeks – Katie – you learn to walk in heels. Charlotte, you learn to _love _them. And then you're coming over my house and then we're going to _throw down_. The boys, the dancing, the boozing – it's going to be an end-of-season, end-of-drama, bugger-all-this _blowout_."

She said all this very impressively. Charlotte and I exchanged glances.

"We don't really have a choice, do we?"

"None at all."

"I'm in if you are, Charlotte." Charlotte bit her lip. Hannah looked at me imploringly.

"I'll even stop calling you Charlie." Charlotte stared at me, blatant hope in her eyes.

"I'm in."

xoxox

"Boys, you are JEALOUS of our plans." Hannah sang as she bounced into the locker room. She's genuinely the bounciest person I know, a big ball of cutesy, flirty energy. She's one of those girls that you're simultaneously jealous of and want to be friends with. Charlotte and I trailed awkwardly in after her, feeling self-consciously not bubbly or bouncy or flirty.

"Are we?" Jordan's head snapped up.

"Oh, yes, yes you are."

"If it doesn't involve changing diapers, then yes, yes I am jealous."

"Okay, Tom, slight downer. Any other guesses?" Hannah giggled.

"I'm sure your children are lovely, Tom." I ducked around Hannah, nodding at him. He smiled wanly at me.

"You're coming to hang by my house." Kieran waggled his eyebrows at us, flexing ostentatiously. Charlotte blushed.

"In your dreams, Dawson."

I could feel Oliver's eyes on me. I risked a quick smile at him, which he returned in full.

"Are you dragging Katie and Charlotte out on one of your mad schemes, Hannah?" his accent seemed thicker than normal – maybe all that time listening to Bard's heavy brogue brought it out.

"Perhaps," Hannah smiled devilishly.

"Oh, just tell them, Hannah," Charlotte sighed, sitting down next to Keiran to finish her packing her bag.

"You're such a spoilsport, Greene." Hannah rolled her eyes and turned back to her audience, every inch a diva. "You all want to know?"

"Yes, my darling Ms. Hendricks," Jordan drawled, batting his eyelashes dramatically at her. I giggled. "Please, do deign to tell us."

"Well, in three weeks – May… 25th – us girls are going out to my favourite new club-"

"You've got a new favourite each week-"

"Shove it, Jordan – my favourite new club, Niche. And we're going to have a blast. And any fun, single – sorry Tom - people who want to come are more than welcome." She glanced around the room. "Anyone? Seriously?" She turned to me. "I am not making this sound exciting enough?"

"No, no, you're doing great." I gestured at her. "Please, continue."

"You all suck. I expect a crowd – and I mean a _crowd_ at my house. I'm writing it on the calendar." She shoved a pamphlet out of the way wrote "HANNAH'S THROWDOWN" is large curly letters. She turned back for one, last, parting shot. "Girls, remember – cute dresses and _heels_." And on that embarrassing note, she flounced out.

"And the queen has left the building. Gentlemen – ladies – I bid you adieu." Jordan swept out.

"Oi, Meyers – don't you dare! You owe me 20 quid and your promised me a drink tonight!" Keiran jumped up, knocking Charlotte's purse to the floor. "Oh, sorry sweetheart-" and he ran after Jordan.

"Oh, Charlotte-" I knelt to help her pick up her belongings, which were rolling under benches and feet.

"It doesn't rain, it pours here." Tom shook his head. "Well, the twins first word might be momma if I'm not home. G'night, you lot." He grinned the proper smile of the night and walked to the door, a little spring in his step. I can't wait to meet Tom's girls. Everyone says they're absolutely adorable. No wonder he's always talking about them.

"Well, then. Katie, should we head out?" I looked up at Oliver, who gave me a half-smile. I debated for a moment.

"You know what, you go ahead, Oliver. I'll just… catch you back home, okay? I have an errand to run with Charlotte anyways."

"Oh." He nodded, then turned to pick up his bags, a little slump in his shoulders. "Oh, and Oliver?" I called after him, not knowing what quite made me do it.

"Yeah?"

"Movie night tonight? In celebration of my first official day?"

His smile was radiant. _Right._ I'd have done anything for that smile.

"I'll have the popcorn waiting."

xoxox

"Hey, Charlotte. Here's your wallet." I held it out to her, watching her face. "Are you okay?"

"What? Yeah. Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

I sat back on my heels, picking up her sweater and refolding it.

"It's Kieran, isn't it? Your 'secret crush.'"

She looked up at me, not surprised, but just a quiet sadness around her eyes.

"Is it that obvious?"

"No. No, it's not. I just… I know. You gravitate towards him."

"He likes Hannah."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

"She doesn't like him."

"No. But she could have him if she wanted."

"Yeah, she probably could."

Charlotte laughed a little, a sad, soft, little laugh.

"Well, _that's_ comforting. Thanks, Katie."

"I'm sorry – here, no – Charlotte. Look at me." I waited for her upturned face, feeling like after everything today, I was for the first time really, truly _talking_ to Charlotte. "Look at us. We're sitting here getting all misty-eyed about the boys that don't love us. You're beautiful and sweet and funny, Charlotte. And I'm…" I gestured wildly "I'm mildly awesome. We're gonna be okay. Alright? This is going to our project – not Hannah's, not the team's, not Oliver's or Kieran's or anyone else's. We're going to get those boys – and if we don't, we're going to be _happy_. Because boys aren't… everything. Okay?"

She smiled weakly at me.

"I like you more when you don't call me Charlie."

"That's the ticket."

* * *

_**Sitting, Waiting, Wishing - Jack Johnson**_

*I totally drew on the end of Harry's first quidditch game for that line. But once it was in my head, I couldn't write anything else.


	15. Settle Down

**AN: **Hey guys. Sorry for the long delay. I know, it's been a month. I'm sorry! I'm going to try and see if I can still to a two-week update schedule – would that be good for you guys? Also – this was just a vague thought – if I made a twitter account for Wooden Words, would you guys be interested in following that? With more rapid information on updates, etc? Or is just good for you? Tell me in reviews, or PM me.

**AN2: **RonScorpiusLover MAKE AN ACCOUNT. DO IT.

**AN3: **Dress sizes mentioned are in UK sizes – thus, 10 = US8, 8 = US6, 6 = US4.

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Settle Down**

_I want to settle down – won't you settle down with me? _

_Ringringringringringring._

"Oliver, can you get the phone?"

I glanced at my reflection, turning on the spot. My hair was just not cooperating today.

_Ringringringring._

"Oliver! I know you know how to use it!" Oliver had surprised me with how rapidly he made everything normal again. I'd come home to an apartment full of that delicious popcorn smell, and my favourite movie – _The Princess Bride _– already queued up. The only thing that had changed, in fact, since Oliver's little outburst was a tiny, awkward shift in our relationship. We didn't touch as often, didn't hug as often. There was just a strange, uncomfortable distance – and whether that was my doing or his, I don't know.

_Ringringringringring-_

"OLIVER." I yanked open the door in time to see him pick up the phone, looking bleary.

"Yeah?"

I rolled my eyes. Talk about Mr. Charisma.

"Oh, hi, Alicia. Yeah. Yeah, she's right here." He handed me the phone and yawned hugely.

I held the phone a little away from my ear – I knew from experience that Alicia was both loud, and not quite the most adept at muggle technology.

"Hi, Alicia. No, he just woke up, I think. Yeah. Oh. Oh! That's – wow. Really? That's great!"

Oliver looked perplexedly at me. I waved a hand at him and frowned into the reciever.

"Wait. When?"

I turned to our calendar. (Glamour photos of Nimbuses. It came with our copy of _Which Broom._ I mean, really, what did you expect?)

"Seriously? Alicia, that's – oh my god. Alicia. That's a month away. Okay, okay a month and a week. Whatever. You're _insane_. I – yes – okay!"

I held the receiver away, staring at it in disbelief.

Oliver waved a hand in front of my face.

"Katie? What's up? What'd she say?"

I blinked up at him, processing as fast as I could.

"I gotta go. Bye!" I said, suddenly, and sprinted out the door.

xoxox

"I just don't see it, Alicia."

I looked at Angelina, lounging out next to me, who shrugged.

"To be honest, I don't either. Does this mean we're not proper girls?"

"You know, I don't know, Angie." We pondered together.

"Seriously, you guys? Okay. Look. Cream, off-white, ivory, eggshell! They're so _different!_"

I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Leesh. Aren't wedding dresses just supposed to be – y'know – _white_? Isn't that some sort of symbol? Like, innocence or purity or something?"  
"Yes, well, Alicia sure isn't _pure_ anymore –" Angelina waggled her eyebrows at me.

"Hey!" Alicia cried, throwing a pillow at Angelina's head with a chaser's unerring aim. "I am perfectly ladylike in all I do." She said, crossing her legs primly.

I snorted incredulously.

"At least I don't _snort_." She cut at me, brown eyes crinkling.

Eh. Fair enough.

"That hurt, you know." Angelina said crossly, rubbing her forehead. "I'd forgotten how hard you throw."

"Do I really snort that often?" I was reflecting on my own – many – unladylike habits.

Angelina and Alicia exchanged looks.

"Not to be rude, Kat…" Alicia started,

"And you know how we love you," Angelina added.  
"But _all the time."_ They chorused.

They burst out laughing.

"Ugh," I groaned. "You've been spending too much time with the twins. You're gonna start finishing each other's sentences. It'll be _sickening_." Angelina grinned.

"Okay, but seriously, guys." Alicia pulled her fabric swatches back out, a serious look returning to her face. "Which one do you think is prettier?"

"Oh, not this again, Leesh." Angelina moaned.  
"Is George really going to care?"  
"George? Psh. It's _my_ wedding dress! I care!"

I chuckled as I flopped back onto the couch. Typical, fashionista Alicia.

"You two are no help." She pouted.

"Nope." Angie agreed cheerfully, dangling her feet over the armchair arm.

"Hm. Well then, I won't bother you with what I've been thinking about for _your _dresses… I'm sure it'd only _bore_ you." She sighed dramatically, sweeping her sheaves of parchment and fabric into her arms.

I shot up. "What?"

"Oh, no you don't." Angelina was up too, gazing at Alicia raptly.

She grinned mischievously. "So selfish. Only interested in _your_ dresses –"

"Oh, shove it, Alicia. Show us!"

"You really want to see?"

I shot her a look.

"Oh, okay. But it's just a first draft, a rough sketch. You know." She rifled through the massive pile and pulled out a single sheet. "Here." She held it out to us.

It was a carefully sketched fashion illustration – a slender, stylized girl wearing a cocktail dress.

"Oh, Leesh. Wow."

The dress was a light silvery-grey fabric, a carefully pleated full skirt drifting lazily about the girl's knees. A brighter silver underskirt glittered through the chiffon as the girl waved up at us, beaming. The fabric twisted into folds and knots across the bodice, nipped in with a dark sash.

"Turn around," Alicia said to the girl, who cheerfully complied, spinning round in a swish of fabric.

"Ooh!" The dress, halter-top and sweetheart in the front, cut to a deep, long V in the back. The sash tied into a bow mid-V, floating in a bare back.

"This is so _cool_, Alicia." Angelina said, "I love it."  
"Hang on," I'd noticed a familiar signature in the corner. "Did you draw this, Leesh?" Angelina turned back to the sketch, surprised.

Alicia blushed.

"You did!"

"Alicia, that's awesome! You designed this? Hang on-"

"Are you designing _your_ dress, too? Wait-"

"Have you done this before? And you haven't told-"  
" – shown me any before? HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN FRIENDS, WOMAN?"

"Woah!" Alicia held her hands up against the sudden onslaught. "Woah, chill out, guys. No!" She covered my mouth to stop me speaking. "Nu-uh. **Sit. Down.**"

We complied.

"Okay." Alicia took a breath. "1) I did. 2) Yes, I've been thinking about designing my dress, too. 3) No, never before. 4) Never been any before – I mean, apart from doodles in notes – so… no. 5) Almost 10 years, I think? Right?" She looked from one face to the other. "That was all of them, right?"

"I-"

"I think that was, actually." Angelina was frowning in concentration, clearly counting backwards in her head.

"But Alicia! This is so cool! We'll have custom-made dresses? This is _so exciting_."

"Seriously, Alicia, why'd you start with swatches of the same color of white? When you had all of _this?_"

"So when do we get to see these in real life?"

"You guys! What is with you and the crazy questions today?" Alicia was looking hassled again.

"BECAUSE WE ARE EXCITED AND THIS IS HOW I SOUND WHEN I AM EXCITED."

"Look, I am _literally_ exploding things downstairs and _that_ hurt my ears."

We spun round to see a tousle-haired Fred leaning against the banister, arms crossed.

"Fred!" Alicia's papers went flying as she jumped in surprise. "Is George with you? I hadn't realized you were all done. He shouldn't – see all this –" She dove around, scooping up papers in a frenzy.

Fred looked amused. "It's not the morning-of yet. He can still _see_ you." He watched Alicia's frantic scrabbling a little bit longer before adding, gently. "Alicia. He's not coming upstairs."

"Oh," she sighed in relief, sitting amongst the piles. "Oh. Good."

In the midst of Alicia's panic, I'd almost missed Angelina's sudden reaction. The moment we'd caught him in the doorway, she'd been transfixed, her face had been full of some strangled emotion. Even while Alicia drew Fred's attention, Angelina's eyes had never left his face. It felt strangely private – like something I shouldn't have seen. I frowned. I'd told Fred that Angelina would never let Alicia's engagement _really_ upset her – but maybe I was overestimating her. In the silence, though, Fred turned to Angelina, his eyes automatically on her face and her expression was gone, like it had never been. She smiled at him, and the whole strange moment vanished.

"So… what's up?" Fred glanced around the room. "All the screaming?"

"Oh, Fred." Alicia shook her head. "Never get married. It's so stressful." Fred blinked. Alicia blanched. "I mean, I didn't mean –" she shot a quick look at Angelina, suddenly stony-faced. "Uh. Dresses!" She grinned weakly.

"Yeah!" I jumped in, shooting a look at Fred.

He vaulted over the back of the couch, landing next to Angelina – seriously, is _everyone _more athletic than me? – in a puff of dust. He slung an arm about her shoulder. "So, dresses?" He said, in a mock-girly voice. "I _love_ dresses. What about flower arrangements? Calla lilies are simply _marvelous_."

Angelina giggled.

"Oh, you're awful. That's _funerals_, Fred. Calla lilies aren't wedding flowers."

"No?" he'd resumed his normal voice. "Well, bugger all. No wonder Fleur looked at me so askance when I bought her that bouquet."

"Actually, they're both!" Alicia held up one of her many magazines. "It says here that-"

"And dear lord, I think I hear George calling me." Fred turned. "I'm sorry, dear. It's the testosterone. I hear the bridal magazines open and it just blocks off the ears. You look beautiful."

Angelina raised her eyebrows.

Fred pulled her in for a kiss, then jumped off the couch again, waved jauntily at us and bounded back down the stairs.

Alicia shook her head. "Rude."

xoxox

Alicia's reasons for setting her wedding so incredibly soon were pretty much nonsensical to me. "This way Mrs. Weasley can't overplan too much – I love her, but, well…" and "We just don't want to wait!" sounded ridiculous. It took us a little while before she admitted that her decided-upon priest – the same little man that had married Bill and Fleur, apparently – was only available in June or December of this year. And Alicia "...just couldn't have a winter wedding!"

Angelina shook her head. "These are a lot of hoops for one guy, Alicia. Besides, there cannot possibly be that many weddings in wizarding Britain this year." She looked at me, vague bafflement on her face.

"I don't know! He just gave me two dates, and said take them or leave them! So I took it!"

Between the three of us, though, we thought we could pull if off. I had stacks and sheaves of paper for Madame Malkin and various other dressmakers, ready to work with us to fabricate Alicia's sketches. Angelina was rapidly flicking down a list, adding up expenses with a practiced eye.

"This is going to be costly, Leesh."

"I know."

Angelina glanced up at her. Alicia had her practiced puppy-dog eyes on.

"Those don't work on me and you know it. We'll make it work – not for the face-" she staved off Alicia's victorious expression with a wave – "But because you're my best friend."

"I love you, Angie!" Alicia jumped over to Angelina, flinging her arms round her and kissing her cheek.

"Ow! Watch it!" Angelina said, quickly shielding her stomach. Alicia bounded back up, still beaming.

"Oh, Katie – I need your measurements. I've already done Angelina."

"Right." I hate measurements. It's always awkward, even when it's your best friend putting their hands places that are suddenly and inexplicably ticklish. Alicia became suddenly professional, muttering to herself busily as she worked.

"Katie,"

"Hmm?"

"Katie, what size are you?"

"Um, 10, I think?"

"That's what I thought. Well," she put down her measuring tape cheerfully. "Quidditch has done you well. You're a 6, now."

"I'm sorry?" A six? I'd never been a six in my life.

"Yep." She grinned. "Look at you!"

I laughed deliriously. "You're kidding. That's fantastic." Angelina grinned too. "You do look better. Not that you were fat before, y'know." I waved a hand at her, not even caring.

"Quidditch is brilliant. I'll have to thank Oliver." Oops. Oliver. I'd left him at home in a state of complete bafflement hours before. I looked about guiltily. "You know, on that note, I should probably be heading out. I never told Oliver why I leaving and it's been hours."

Alicia's face sobered a little. "Oh, if you must. But please come back – there's tons more to do."

Angelina nodded wide eyes at me, mouthing "Save me," over and over again.

I grinned. "I'll be back, I swear. I wouldn't leave you guys high and dry." Alicia jumped up again at the word high.

"That reminds me! One last thing, Katie." She disappeared into her bedroom; Angie and I exchanged looks as thuds echoed from the door. "Found them!" she yelled triumphantly, before darting back into the room.

Dangling from her fingers were two beautiful, sparkly, silvery, sequined, spiky _deathtraps. _

"No." I backed away, eyes wide.

"_Yes." _Alicia's eyes sparkled evilly.

"I'll break my ankle, Alicia! Those have to be at least three inches!"

"Four and half, actually."

My jaw dropped.

"I can't walk in that!"

"Oh you can, and you will. Because I am getting married, Katie Bell, and that gives me the right to go bat-shit crazy on your arse for the next few weeks, and if I say you're gonna walk in these heels down that aisle, you know what?" she all of this fast, and low and fierce.

"What?" I watched her fearfully.

"_You'd best be running in them_."

And she grinned a terrifyingly sweet and innocent smile, handed me the heels and ushered me out.

_Feck. _

_**Settle Down - Kimbra**_


	16. I Get Ideas

**AN: **Hey guys! Two weeks almost exactly. Not much is happening, it's Thanksgiving week here in the US, and I'M HOME... which I am wildly excited about. The twitter account is up and running - twitter. com / aicalasFF (minus all the spaces) I'll be posting about updates and possibly some added stuff that I can't link to on here there, so you should check it out! Lots of love. Byeeee.

**Chapter Sixteen  
****I Get Ideas  
**_When we are dancing, and you're dangerously near me, I get ideas…  
__(I kind of think you get ideas, too…)_

I turned up the music. If I was going to do this, everything needed to be right – empty house, lots of empowering music and zero chance of embarrassment. Less than zero, preferably. Even if that is statistically impossible.

_Deep breaths, Katie._

Okay.

I pulled the box out from under my bed. Arriving home, I'd promptly hidden the blasted things in the first shoebox I could find, far away from Oliver's – or anyone else's, for that matter – prying eyes. The last thing I needed was him seeing them. I wasn't sure why, but I wanted to keep them all to myself, for now.

_Katie. You're stalling_.

I pulled off the top.

The heels really were stunning. They were peep-toe pumps, sparkly, mesh-covered silver and a slightly shinier platform, all of it concentrated into the deadly four-and-a-half inch spike that was mocking me with its slender, pretty shape. They weren't what _I'd _have chosen as bridesmaid shoes – not by a long shot – but Alicia had always liked the glitzy, and even though they ran the edge between fun and tacky, she'd always managed to pull off such questionable things. I decided to just trust her on this one.

"What is it with you and Hannah?" I mumbled sadly to myself as I slid one on. "Why are you both convinced that I need to be four inches taller than I am normally?" I pulled on the second. "Why am I the only one that recognizes what a terrible idea thi- WHOA-" I stood up and promptly tipped over, grabbing my bed for support. "That is _much_ higher than I was expecting. Okay. Slowly." Using my footboard for support, I slowly stood again, swaying a little but standing straight. "Hello, there," I said conversationally to the ground between my toes, "You're quite far away down there." I gave it a little wave. Okay. Baby steps, right? I'd just walk along the edge of the bed here, nice and slow. The websites I'd looked up – yes, I looked up websites. Look, I don't know if I've quite established this: I am a klutz. And a tripper. The very last thing I need to do is add high-heeled shoes to the mix. Anyways. The sites had encouraged little steps, and lots of shoe inserts. "Okay," I whispered, "here goes…"

Keeping one hand clamped to the bed, I took tiny steps along the edge. I was doing it! I was walking and not falling. My ankles wobbled uncomfortably with each step, and all ten of my toes were voicing individual complaints about the lack of space they were experiencing, but that was okay. I'm pretty tough when it comes to pain – I figured high heels would just be a different sort, but I'd weather it. I giggled giddily. I was walking in heels! What next? I lined my feet up next to each other and slowly pulled my hands from the wood, leaning a little as I balanced myself, standing up straight.

_Unsupported, in heels_._ Look at me_. I caught a glimpse of movement in my mirror and turned a little more. Now, sure, rolled-up jeans and an old t-shirt wouldn't necessarily be my clothes of choice for heels, but I couldn't deny that they looked… good. Pretty and girly and, well. Kinda hot. I grinned at my reflection.

"Dayum, girl." I winked at myself.

Oh jeez. Is this what I do when I'm wearing heels? Jesus. Mark 'drastic personality change' as another reason I shouldn't wear them.

"Focus, Katie."

_Right. Back to walking._

I walked loops and loops around the bed, hand never leaving something solid. I was proud of my ability to stand unsupported, but I wasn't quite ready to test that balance compounded with movement. I'd take quick little breaks, standing on my own, but whenever I thought about walking on my own, I'd do something stupid like roll my ankle, or catch the heel on the floor and have to grab at the bed for support. Still, so far, it was less disastrous than I was expecting.

My pump-up playlist was both bad and good. Good, because it made me feel _awesome_. Bad, because most the songs also made me want to dance really badly, like an idiot across my room. Bad, also, because most of the songs were painfully embarrassing, and the playlist was very, very loud. But whatever. Oliver wasn't in, and no one was coming to visit or anything like that. My iPod shuffled to something new and I grinned. I shuffled awkwardly on the spot, waving my hands and dancing in place, trying to move my feet as little as possible.

"_I'm trouble yeah, I'm trouble now-"_

Why was I singing under my breath? No one was here. Who cares?

"I GOT TROUBLE IN MY TOWN-" I belted out, bouncing from foot to foot. I could walk across my room. I could do that. It was only a few feet. I was a total badass, I could manage a couple of feet. Listen to this song, of course I'm a badass. One step, then the next – I was doing it! I was walking! YES.

I danced on the spot, unabashedly. Yes. Pink, you are my best friend. I can walk in heels. Of course I can walk in heels. Because I'm sexy. Sexy and coordinated and badass. _Totally._ I wiggled on the spot, grinning at the seductive parts of the song. I belted it out at my mirror, dancing while watching my reflection. I guess the music was so loud that I couldn't hear anything outside my room, because quite suddenly, several things happened _very fast. _

"Katie, that is really _freaking loud_. What _are _you listening to?" My head snapped towards the door. No-

My door banged open. Oliver stood framed there, totally bemused. I lunged for my iPod, desperate to turn off the music, totally and suddenly forgetting my 4-inch spikes. I couldn't handle the movement. Immediately, I was tripping, and falling

"SHI-"

"Katie!"

Arms caught me before I hit the floor, hoisting me up to Oliver's chest. I stared up at him, feeling myself already blushing.

"What are you _doing_?" He was grinning, clearly fighting back laughter.

Hah. Trouble indeed.

"Um. Can I just- turn that- uh-" Keeping one arm wrapped around my waist, Oliver reached out a languorous arm and clicked my iPod off. "Oh. Thanks." Damn boys and their long arms. Dammit, dammit dammit. And damn Alicia, and damn these heels. At that rate, you know what? Damn P!nk and damn my clumsiness and damn my complete inability to ever, _ever_ be attractive and suave and sexy and just _normal_ around Oliver. _Ughhh_.

"Well, hello there." Oliver grinned down at me.

"Don't say anything."

"What's there to say?" He smiled ever more innocently, and then, rather suddenly, swept me up and carried me over to the bed.

"Oliver!"

"I don't trust you walking, Kat."

"I can…" I started to protest, before rethinking it. "Okay, you know what? That's fair." He let go of me and sat down next to me, picking up one bejeweled foot and plunking it on his lap.

"No- don't-" I tried to snatch my foot away, but he held it fast. Oliver's eyes widened, traveling up my leg.

"What are you _wearing_, Katie?"

"They're heels."

"I can see that. _Why _are you wearing heels?"

"They're for Alicia's wedding. All the bridesmaids are wearing them, and she wants me to be able to walk down the aisle without faceplanting and taking out the rest of the bridal party-"

"So, you were practicing?" He glanced up at me, his face working furiously to keep from laughing.

"Oh, just laugh, you bastard."

"And how was that. Um. Working for you?" his voice was choked with giggles.

I was not amused.

"I think you know," I said, coldly, raising one eyebrow.

Oliver broke out laughing. "I'm sorry, Katie – but you looked so," he gasped "serious, and it's just….ahahaha…" I tugged my foot out of his grasp, and swatted his arm for good measure.

"Well, forgive _me_ for thinking that I could for just _once_ be a little bit sexy and hot and just a _girl_. Forgive _me_ for doing what my best friend asked me-"

Oliver was still laughing.

"Like you need heels to be sexy," he snorted. I froze.

Oliver suddenly realized what he'd just said. "I mean, y'know. Heels aren't, um, necessary. For girls. In general."

_Oliver? Did Oliver just say I'm sexy?_

"Heels just help if they can. Um. Walk in them." He added. I blinked. _Never mind. _

"I'll just… take them off, then, and forget this whole-"

"Aw, don't, no."

I shook my head, frustrated. "I mean, I not only have to _walk_ in these things, I have to _dance_ in them."

"Oh, well, that's not a problem." I frowned up at him.

"What? Of course it's a problem. I can barely walk unsupported in them."

"Not if you're doing the right dancing- here, come on." He stood up and held out a hand to me, grinning again. "Keep the heels on."

"Oliver, what are you-" I took his outstretched hand and he pulled me forcibly up. "Woah-" I immediately overbalanced, falling into his chest. He grunted.

"Sorry," I mumbled, shyly.

"Nah, I knew it was coming." He took one of my hands in his, and wrapped the other around my waist. "Okay. Step on my feet."

"What? In _these _shoes?" _Hang on, people say that in real life? Point to the heels. _"No!"

"Really! You don't weigh anything Katie. Go on."

"You're going to regret this."

"No I won't. Come on."

I shook my head, wonderingly. "Okay…" and gingerly lifted my feet, one at a time, onto his. "Are you sure?"

"Very. Okay, now, other hand – on my shoulder. Hold tight." I gripped his shoulder, feeling bad thinking about all the different points at which I could be causing him pain.

"Oliver, what are we-?"

"And we dance!" He laughed and started to dance, swinging me around on the tops of his shoes. I grabbed his shoulder more tightly, burying my face in his chest. It was the _weirdest_ feeling. I giggled.

"Ah, Oliver! This is so _strange_. Are you sure I'm not crushing your feet?"

"My dad used to dance with my ma like this all the time." I could hear the smile in his voice. "'Course, she's a wee little person too."

"I am not wee!" I answered crossly, quickly realizing that my voice being muffled by his chest wasn't really helping my cause.

I felt him shake with laughter.

"Yes, you are. Look at you, you're tiny."

"I am not that short!" I pulled my head out of his chest, looking up at him. "You're just stupidly tall!"

"Stupidly, eh?" He bent his head towards me. I really am not _that_ short. In fact, with these heels, I think we both forgot how much taller I'd be. His face was much closer than I'd expected.

"Uh, yes. Stupidly tall…" His eyes were very close, and very deep. I felt his hand twitch in mine.

We'd stopped moving entirely, staring at eachother, the silence thick with… _something_. I realized, rather suddenly, that this was the closest I'd been to Oliver since that unfortunate outburst of his.

"Uh," he started, breaking the silence. Right. Oliver couldn't let go of me, or I'd fall over. Right. That was it.

"Right," I stepped back off his feet, one hand still steadying myself on his shoulder.

"Oh," his hand was still at my back. His eyes were wide in some adorably lost confusion. As always, the responsibility to make things less awkward fell on me.

"Um, well." _Good start, Katie_. "Thanks for the dance, Ollie." _Dear god, woman. _

"Yeah…" his hand slowly fell from my back.

I carefully pulled my hand out of his and sat down on the bed to take off my shoes, casting around desperately for some topic of conversation. "But, you know, shouldn't your mum be some big, tough Scottish woman? _His mother? Dear lord. Katie, did you just call his __mother fat? _"I mean, not… wee? I mean, you're freaking _tall_."

He blinked down at me for a moment, then a grin cracked his face.

"My mum's Irish. I mean, not like your comment isn't still ridiculous, but-"

"You're mum's Irish? Really? Huh. I thought you were all pureblood Scot, highland-obbsessed-"

Oliver started laughing.

"Stop laughing at me! Listen to your bloody brogue! You're sound like you just wandered out of _Braveheart_!"

"God, Katie, you're the best."

I smiled.

"Even if I'm not tall or Scottish or Irish and also happen to be extraordinarily uncoordinated? I mean, my people have subjugated your whole family, on _both sides_."

Oliver laughed delightedly.

"Even then, you short little clumsy subjugator."

I wagged a heel at him warningly.

"That's not a term of endearment and don't let me ever catch you try to use it like it is. Or I'll start calling you… my giant, coordinated… inferior."

"Not very catchy."

"Not at all." I burst out laughing.

"C'mon, subjugator. You've got your first game in a week, and that means more workouts, and less heels." He grinned and walked towards the door.

I dropped the heel. I'd been avoiding thinking about our upcoming match, busying myself instead with Alicia's wedding.

"Hey! You can't just say that and leave! Come back here!" I shouted at his retreating back. "I will subjugate you! Don't try me!"

All Oliver did was laugh over his shoulder. Cheeky Scot. Cheeky… scotch-irish. Ugh, how much less fun to say. I yelled after him.

"You'll always be a cheeky Scot to me!"

"And you'll always be a clumsy Brit!"

Touché.

* * *

**_I Get Ideas - Louis Armstrong_**

**_Trouble - P!nk_**


	17. Sweetness

**AN: **Apologies, guys, for the heinously long wait. Just had a major block, and, when I finally got over it, had some really frustrating health problems back at school. But, still, mostly inexcusable. Just had to get the plot moving along; next ones should be coming up soon!

Feeling fuzzy? What you missed: After recovering from a nasty fall, Katie's been drafter onto Puddlemere United. In an attempt to bond all the girls, Hannah (beater) has decided a girls' night out needs to happen, unconsciously joining forces with the engaged Alicia in her quest to get the ever-clumsy Katie in a pair of heels. An attempt to master waking in 'spiky deathtraps' led to Katie literally falling for - or onto - Oliver, who's just as inscrutable as ever. Romance and shoes aside, Katie's first professional Quidditch match against the Holyhead Harpies is fast-approaching, and who ever has time to pause for breath or dancing?

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen  
****Sweetness  
**_the sweetness will not be concerned with me…_

The week passed in a blur. Coach was frantic, pushing all of us harder and faster in our practices, alternately tacking on extra hours, and berating us for not sleeping enough. Thursday night found me stretched out on the couch, my legs aching; Oliver hadn't even bothered to make it to the furniture, merely staggered to the floor in front of the television.

"Is he always this militant?" I winced as I rubbed my shins. He'd had us doing sprints and suicides. Why? How could that possibly benefit flying?

"No, actually," Oliver said, face pressed into the floor. "This is all you."

"Me?" I sat up irately, my back protesting violently. "Ow – what do you mean me? How is this my fault?"

"You're an unknown. And you're coming in for the last game before the season's break? It terrifies him. He's been trying to figure out how to use you best."

"Use me?"

Oliver sighed and rolled over to face me. "None of the other teams know anything about you. They have no idea how to plan for you. But if they watch this game – and trust me, they will be-"

"That's reassuring Ollie, thanks."

"-then they'll know exactly how you'll play _and_ have a solid summer break to plan just how to play against you."

"Jesus."

"So he's been trying to spin this positively, and it's driving him mad."

The game tomorrow, against the Holyhead Harpies, was the last game of Puddlemere's spring season. The British quidditch season took a three-month break during the summer months to a) allow the teams some much-needed rest and b) to begin focusing practice on the British and Irish teams for the World Cup. World Cup teams were made of the best-scoring players from each team over the course of the season, and they'd – Oliver explained to me – already been more or less decided. He'd been beaten for that coveted keeper slot by the Falmouth Falcons' keeper ("It's not fair," he'd moaned, "he's like a bear on a broom. Of course they can't get anything past him, he covers all the hoops just by sitting still.") There was, of course, also an inter-league championship, but, Oliver had explained, despite their undefeated status abroad, they'd taken a real beating amongst the home teams this year.

Thus, everything Oliver had said was true. This would be Puddlemere's last game until September training began. I'd come in at an absolutely mad time; and were it not for Farrow's less-than-pleasant exit, Coach certainly wouldn't have made the switch-up.

"So what you're trying to tell me," I began, slowly, "is that all the pain I am feeling right now is a direct result of my involvement with this team?"

Oliver paused, finger in the air, debating. "…mmm…yes." he stabbed up decisively. "That is exactly what I am saying."

"Oh, bugger all this." I mumbled, and rolled away into the couch.

xoxox

Game day dawned bright and early, and I, against all odds, wasn't worried.

"I don't get it," Charlotte muttered, sitting down next to me, watching me tie my boots. "First practice, you were – no offense – an absolute mess. This is your first game, and I'm pretty certain you're less nervous than _I_ am." She peered closer to my face. "Did Oliver drug you?"

"Nope," I switched to my next shoe. "I-"

"She's just good under pressure," Oliver had sat on Charlotte's other side, looking especially proud of himself.

"It's just a game." I shrugged.

"Just a game?" Charlotte stared at me like I had three heads.

I flicked my ponytail over my shoulder.

"Just a game. Just another game against another team. Totally not a big deal. Totally not a dream coming true or, you know, playing against my favourite team or anything like that ha. Ha. Ha."

Okay. So maybe I was a little worried.

"And _there's_ that mildly manic smile I was expecting." She nodded. Oliver raised an eyebrow.

"'mildly manic'? You're starting to sound like Katie.

I grinned up at her.

"Am I rubbing off on you?"

Charlotte winced and plowed on, studiously ignoring me.

"On the plus side, no matter what happens, you're still stuck with me-"

"WHO'S EXCITED FOR TOMORROW NIGHT?" We all jumped.

"Dear _God,_ Hannah. I actually think you permanently damaged my eardrum." I winced, tilting my head away from her. My heart sank. I'd almost forgotten entirely about Hannah's grand plan. The more I thought about it, the less I liked what I'd gotten myself roped into. Where were we going? What did I have to wear? Just thinking about it was enough to make my stomach a nervous mess. It just felt like a bad idea.

"_Well?"_ Hannah wedged herself between Charlotte and I. "You're both all prepped and ready and heel-worthy, right? Because you know the alternative is not an option."

Was she encouraging me, or threatening me? I snuck a glance at Charlotte, who offered a blank stare, clearly as baffled as I was.

"Ugh, neither of you are any fun," she pouted as we continued to not answer her, both stunned into silence.

I was saved from having to answer by Coach's dramatic entrance. Hair and beard flying every direction, he strode in like an irate bear.

"Right, quiet down, you lot. I've had bad news."

We stared at him. I'd seen the same look of desperation in Oliver's eyes before a game; whether it was actually bad news, or just catastrophic in a coach's overly-obsessed mind was always up in the air.

"The bastards pulled a last-minute switch on us."

"What?" We stared.

"Isn't that… isn't that against the rules?" I began. "That must break some rule. Right?"

He gritted his teeth.

"It is. But. There's a clause – if a team member gets injured, they can sub in a reserve with no more experience than anyone on the opposite team."

I turned his words over in my head.

"Well…. That's good then, isn't it? Because I don't have any experience, right? So… it has to be another fresh reserve?"

"_Exactly_."

He stared grimly at me.

Uh.

"Am… am I missing something?"

"You were our unknown. Now, they've got one too – and I haven't even bothered to watch their practices or check their reserves, because the whole damn team was flying _fine. _Rude, this is! They're not even considering us a threat."

"Who did they sub in?" Oliver cut across Coach's increasingly irritated monologue.

"Gwen Bedlam."

"That's never her real name." I stifled a little laugh. Bedlam? What was she, a 60's supervillain?

Coach glared at me. I sobered up fast.

"It is. And they've kept her under tight wraps. Wasn't even second string at the start of this season. Playing left-wing chaser."

"My spot?"

He nodded, and handed me a picture.

Gwen Bedlam was grinning out at me, looking like hell on high heels.

"She's practically a Barbie!" I burst out, before I could stop myself. "An… an Amazon Barbie!" As far as I could tell in this picture, Gwen was tall, long-legged, had long, straight blonde hair, and a positively demonic smile. Oliver peered over my shoulder at her, nodding in concentration. My stomach twinged in jealousy.

"Alright. So, guys, I just need you to go out there and… and _fly_. Just don't even give them a chance to sink their nasty, cheating little fangs into it. Just beat them."

And he nodded at us, glancing around the room one last time before striding out, footsteps loud in the silent locker room.

I turned to Charlotte, feeling my face pale.

"Do I still look overconfident to you?"

* * *

**_Sweetness - Jimmy Eat World_**


	18. Born For This

Chapter Eighteen  
**Born For This  
**_We were born for this._

We trooped to the tunnel, my heart pounding somewhere around my ears. I had wanted to be excited about this moment – who hadn't dreamed about hearing their name called over the loudspeakers before the flew out into a roaring crowd? But I could feel my stomach doing sad, wet little backflips of anxiety. The team started to shuffle into line, chasers first (Tom, Keiran, me), Oliver, beaters, seekers. I glanced down. I was gripping my broom so tightly, my knuckles were white and bloodless. Oliver tapped my shoulder.

"Hey," he whispered. "You're gonna be brilliant. Okay?" I nodded mutely. He pulled me into a bear hug and, pulling back, kissed me on the forehead. "For luck," he winked.

And my stomach was doing backflips for an entirely different reason. I turned just as a crackling, magically amplified voice boomed, "On the Puddlemere United side, chasers - Evans!" Tom waved and flew out - oh god, it was happening – "Dawson!" Keiran tossed a thumbs-up in our direction and kicked off. Oh god, oh god. "_Bell!" _I couldn't even bring myself to say anything to the team. _Just fly straight, Katie._ I thought, and took off into the blinding sunlight, into the roar of the crowd.

The stands were packed. I was thankful I'd played Quidditch throughout Hogwarts, thankful I knew instinctively not to freeze up in front of a crowd – but Hogwarts had nothing on this. Thousands of upturned faces, cheering and waving from a sea of green and blue. _Blue! _I took heart in the vast swells of Puddlemere fans and concentrated on not being sick, and flying straight, pulling up next to Tom.

"How's a girl, Bell?" Tom muttered to me, his gaze not moving from the opposite side of the pitch.

"Can't complain," I answered, breathlessly. Tom had almost imperceptibly transformed from the mild-mannered, quiet figure he normally was to an upright, brisk captain exuding authority. I'll admit, I'd never really thought about why Tom, of anyone, was lead chaser but, even through the low hum of anxiety thrumming in my ears, I could see why now. He glanced over at me. "You'll be fine," he said, not unkindly. "You wouldn't be here or have gotten this far if this weren't your sport." I nodded weakly.

"We're all here for a reason," he nodded, almost to himself and turned back to scrutinize the Harpies' side of the pitch.

"_Wood!"_

I glanced behind me. Oliver burst out of the tunnel to a high-pitched chorus from the audience. Fangirls? Jeez, Oliver. He spiraled off to the goalposts (the showoff) and, once he was situated, caught me watching him and cheekily saluted. There was collective applause. Alright, girls. Calm yourselves. That was for _me._ It wasn't long before the rest of the team was out, Jordan and Hannah flanking us, Charlotte hovering over our heads. The pitch's collective attention turned to the opposite end. Gwenog Jones (dear god) came out first, a dark green blur shooting out like a comet. She took up place as a beater, and the rest of her team streamed out. These girls were fierce. With a delicate little spiral, and a flash of blonde hair, Gwen Bedlam was across from me. She was every inch the pretty girl I'd seen in the photo – even at the angle across the pitch, I could see her brilliant and (totally sly and cunning – dude, who would trust this girl?) smile flashing in my direction.

Facing the Holyhead Harpies was like facing living legends. They were fierce, a line-up of long, waving hair and pretty features contorted into fearsome game faces. I took brief comfort in that – my hair was pulled back tight from my face, braided and tied – these girls were obviously willing to sacrifice visibility and efficiency for their image. That would be a useful tool. Bedlam was, from what I could see, taller than me – probably longer arms and a longer reach, but, hopefully, a bit heavier and less agile. (Thinking back to that photo, though, she probably didn't have much extra weight).

Our ref dropped in between our teams, barking out the rules of the game from behind his bushy mustache. Tom flew forwards to shake Gwenog's hand, his face impassive and unreadable.

"I want a good, clean match, alright?" His mustache ruffled as he spoke, giving the strangest impression that he had no mouth at all. Balancing on his broom, his opened the box on his lap. A flash of gold whizzed into the air, before darting up and vanishing. "And the snitch has been released! We are less than a minute away from start, now," I nearly jumped at the commentator's voice. After all this time, I had still half-expected it to be Lee Jordan's familiar tones – but, strangely, it was still a voice I recognized. I turned, squinting at the booth. A dark-haired head turned. "And, of course, we have two excellent teams here, the Holyhead Harpies and Puddlemere United, which has not one, but _two_ of my fellow former members of the Gryffindor quidditch team." The boy waved, and I gasped. "Hello, Katie, Oliver!"  
Dean Thomas! I turned round on my broom, mouthing at Oliver, who gave me a quick thumbs up, before gesturing for me to turn around again.  
"Of course, I will ever remain your unbiased, unprejudiced and completely fair quidditch commentator." He added, the smile evident in his voice. The ref had obviously heard that line before, because he gave a little eye-roll as he hefted the quaffle.  
"1…" all eyes were on that bright little ball, now.

"2…" the ref lifted it higher, grumbling his countdown around the whistle clenched between his teeth. It moved up infinitesimally, and I caught a sudden flash of white. Gwen Bedlam had caught my eye and, grinning brilliantly, winked at me.  
"3!" he threw the quaffle, hard, straight up and the whistle blew.  
"AND THEY'RE OFF!"

Our cluster exploded. Tom had shot straight up, aiming to catch the ball at its apex, Keiran and I dodging to our respective sides. Hannah and Jordan spiraled away, out of my line of sight, and the first thing I realized was that Gwen Bedlam was dogging me. Tom was deceptively fast, faster than their head chaser, Wilda Griffiths, and his hands closed around the quaffle as he kept shooting up, over her heads. I had already flattened myself to my broom, diving shallowly under the scrum, shooting up and almost colliding with Bedlam. _You've got to be kidding me._ Was that her play? She'd reversed in a frantic mess, thrown by my dive, but she was getting in my way. I gritted my teeth. _Fine_.

The first thing you learned on a Quidditch pitch was how to adapt, and think in the air. And the second thing was never, ever call your plays. Our whole team had a catalogue of plays and plans memorized; we relied on the fact that everyone had an equal knowledge of them, so if someone headed into tactic B or C or 13, we'd all follow suit. So, I would adapt. If Gwen Bedlam wanted to be my shadow, that's fine. Because, I suddenly realized as I shot past her, eyes locking briefly with Tom, I wasn't nervous anymore. If Gwen had been put there to freak me out, they'd miscalculated wildly. She'd just gotten my blood up, and the last thing the Harpies needed was a competitive Katie Bell.

I rolled left, diving again, swiping the quaffle that Tom had dropped down milliseconds before.  
"And oh! What a sneaky pass from Puddlemere's captain, Tom Evans to rookie left-wing chaser Katie Bell," Dean's voice was thick with approval. "And Bell is _off, _with Harpies rookie Gwen Bedlam hot on her tail! In this field of veterans, will this really be a newcomers' game, folks?"  
"We'll see about that, Thomas." I muttered, one ear pricked for the _whoosh _of Bedlam's broom. She was coming up on my left side. I grinned. _Rookie mistake, girl. _She was just trying to block me from Tom, who'd fallen back. As though we had just two chasers. I rolled again, bracing my chin against my shoulder to get a good glance at the field to my right. I caught a flash of red as Keiran nodded.  
"And Bell is just showing off now, isn't she?"

_Oh, please. _I grinned. If it fooled Thomas, fingers crossed none of the Harpies had caught it either. I reverse passed quick and hard over my shoulder, whipping around to make sure it connected. Mistake. Gwen took the chance to dart in on my left side, and I whipped around to catch where she was, just getting a flash of devilish smile before a well-aimed bludger crunched into my side. "Oh, _fuck_," I moaned, clutching my broom.

"Gotta be faster than that, Bell." Her voice was low and sickly sweet in my ear. I grimaced hard, fighting to get my wind back, just as a ding and cheer filled the stadium.

"And first goal goes to _Puddlemere!_ And, ooh, that is a nasty bludger to the ribs for Bell, from Gwenog Jones."

I straightened up. I'd be fine. You had to be, in quidditch. "10 points, Bedlam. Worth some bruises." I grinned into her smirking face and peeled away, back into play. I needed to get away from her.  
"Oi, Bell!" Hannah was flying past me, corralling a bludger. "Nice work! You alright?"

"Fine!" I shouted back, keeping my eyes on the quaffle, about to be pitched back into play.  
"Don't worry. I'm gonna wipe the smile off of that little blonde bitch's face." Hannah grinned evilly at me, before shooting after her bludger.

We were on our game. Dean Thomas' commentary grew more and more delighted as our chasers ducked and dove, practically reading eachother's minds. We were working so seamlessly that a quaffle hadn't even yet come into Oliver's area. I had a vague awareness of him hovering anxiously in the goal area. Oliver hated not being part of the fray. But I was too busy, far too busy trying to shake Gwen Bedlam and keep and eye on the quaffle to worry about him. The Harpies were damn good, and we were quickly reduced to a mid-field shuffle, neither team being able to break through the other's defenses.  
"Oh, fuck this," I heard Hannah mutter as she sailed over my head, before turning, grinning and whacking a bludger directly at my face.  
"What the-?" I ducked, fast, flattening down, and understood immediately, as I heard the smack and squeal of the hard ball connecting with Gwen. Keiran took advantage of the distraction to nab the quaffle and, merely holding it out, passed it to me as I shot past him. I threw it, hard, and we'd made our second goal before Gwen Bedlam had even known what had hit her. The sea of blue set up another roar.  
"GOOOOAL!" Dean Thomas yelled, the megaphone crackling at the volume of his shout. "And Puddlemere scores again! 20-0!"  
I punched the air as their frustrated keeper dove to catch the quaffle again, punting it far faster than I'd expected.

Wilda Griffiths caught it, and was flashing down the pitch like a lightning bolt. We roared after her, Jordan smacking a bludger that just skimmed her head, soaring past her. Oliver was waiting, tense, watching her. _Shit_. There was no way to get there in time. She passed, suddenly, and Valmai Morgan seemed to appear out of nowhere, catching and throwing the quaffle in one fluid movement. I gasped for the briefest moment, as the ball sailed towards the right-most hoop. _Smack_. It bounced, hard, against Oliver's outstretched foot. He'd swung, hard and fast off of his broom and _kicked_ the quaffle away from the goal. The fangirls went wild.  
"You show-off, Oliver Wood," I grinned to myself, as Oliver swung himself back onto the broom, scooping up the quaffle in the process. He saluted to the crowd, - "A flashy save by Puddlemere's Oliver Wood –" (Fair enough, Dean.) - and pitched the quaffle. We were off, zinging up and down the pitch, the quaffle changing hands and teams so quickly Dean could barely get out names out in time.

I found myself in front of the Holyhead goalpost again, the quaffle tight under my arm, when it was suddenly wrenched out of my grasp. Keiran had been setting himself up for another pass, but I shouted over my shoulder, and he wheeled, both of us shooting off after Griffiths. For the first time all game, I realized, suddenly, there was silence behind me. Bedlam wasn't tracking me. She wasn't even on this side of the pitch. I blinked. My focus slipped, the quaffle and Wilda Griffiths fading from my mind as I realized, with a little jolt, that Gwen Bedlam was all the way across at the other end of the pitch, and she was talking to Oliver – and he was turned to her, talking _back_.

What in the hell?

I think the rest of the team must have been as shocked as I, because it felt like we all moved in slow-motion, and it wasn't until the shout went up that we realized that Oliver had spun around far too late, and Wilda had already sunk the quaffle through his right-most hoop.

"And that's 10-20, with Puddlemere still in the lead, despite a damn strange goal scored against them-"

Tom flew past me, recovered quaffle in hand. "Regroup!" he shouted as he passed, and I broke out of my reverie, spinning like a top. With a tell-tale _whoosh_, Gwen was behind me again, flattening herself to follow me.  
"What the fuck was that?" I spat at her, speaking louder than I'd intended, sudden anger making my hands clench. What was she playing at?  
She didn't answer, just smiled, and passed me.

The Harpies' keeper blocked our attempt on goal, and the next three after that. We played them mercilessly, lost count of the number of times we'd all been hit by bludgers, and the game toiled on. Oliver redoubled his concentration, and block goal after goal. Gwen Bedlam had returned safely to being my tail; irritating, but somehow, I preferred it. However, this game was getting ridiculous. The sun was already starting to drop dangerously low in the sky, and I was starving.

Charlotte swooped into my line of sight, one of her rare forays into our altitude.

"Mind catching the snitch, Greene?" I yelled after her, mostly kidding.  
She glanced over her shoulder at me and grinned. "If I must," she shot back and, in a shockingly perfect moment, dropped down towards the base of the Harpies' goalpost, flat against her broomhandle.

I stared after her, open-mouthed, as the Harpies seeker dashed after her, eons too late.  
"Has she seen the Snit- my god! She has! And she – yes! Trench is way behind! And – I don't believe it! Yes! Charlotte Greene has caught the snitch! Puddlemere United wins, 170-10!"

We won?

I turned, eyes wide, before Hannah smacked directly into me, forcing me into a bear-like, midair hug.

Oliver's mishaps, Gwen Bedlam's antics – all of it didn't matter. Charlotte Greene had wiped it all clean, and in that moment, as the team bore down on us, everyone cheering and laughing, I felt achingly, wonderfully, wondrously happy. We had won. It had been long, and hard and brutal, but we all had won. Tom was right – we did belong on this pitch, in this sport.  
It wasn't until Oliver, beaming proudly, pulled me against his side and my ribs twinged in protest that I remembered Gwen, remembered all the weird, little things she'd done that had pissed me off, and I snuck a look up at Oliver. He was grinning, looking, for all the world to see, blissfully happy as we all slowly descended, still whooping. But there was a tightness in his jaw and a coolness in his eyes that made my stomach lurch. _Something is going on here_, I realized_, and, somehow, I get the feeling it's nothing good. _

* * *

Ergh, minor cliffie? Anywho, sorry for the loooooong time between updates. I've been planning these upcoming 2-3ish chapters for months, so they should come along pretty quickly!

_**Born For This – Paramore**_


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